“Yeah, I’ll bet.”
“I remember when that boy’s mother died,” Marcy said. “That was pretty ugly too.”
“How’s that?”
“Anna Stiller’s body was found in the White River. She’d been missing for several days. At first they thought she’d been murdered, then they found she’d taken a whole bottle of sleeping pills. The police ruled it a suicide, but a lot of people in town didn’t believe it. Some think her husband had something to do with it, whether he drove her to do it or if he did it to her on purpose. He has a higher opinion of himself than most people have of him.”
I remembered Dani’s words at lunch the day of our first argument. Maybe he has a problem. I got a sick feeling deep in my stomach.
At school, I looked for Dani. She was finishing an essay for English. I scooted my chair close to hers. “Did you hear about Chuck’s brother?”
Her eyes were sad, and my heart melted. No wonder I liked her so much. She was so compassionate. “Wasn’t that terrible?”
“Marcy told me about Chuck’s mother and how she died. That sure explains a lot about him.”
Her response was quick and clipped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Afraid that I hadn’t said what I meant to say, I thought for a second before I answered.
“What I mean is, Stiller’s had a difficult life. He never knew his mom. And with all the talk about what happened to her, he’s probably confused. I feel sorry for him.”
I put my hand in my pocket. The worm was there as usual. I continued. “You were right, Dani. He does have problems. I’m glad I left him alone.” And when I said that, I meant it. I was glad Dani didn’t back off from what she believed was right. Real friends aren’t afraid to be honest, even when they’re telling you something they know you don’t want to hear.
I couldn’t deny I’d heard the words Walk away the first time Chuck wanted to fight. Cletus McCulley had something to do with that. And I was glad he didn’t back off, either.
Who’d have thought a person could have friends who were living and dead?
The afternoon of Derek Stiller’s visitation, I put on my black suit and the orange tie with the pinto bean dots. Mom asked me to help with the flowers, so I ran down to the front entrance and met the driver as she was going back to her van for more arrangements. I followed her outside. A black Corvette was sitting at the edge of the parking lot. A man inside rolled the window down and threw a bottle into the culvert on the side of the road. I grabbed two pots of ivy and headed back inside.
At the front of the chapel, a lone figure sat lifeless in the first pew, his head against the wall. It was Stiller. I walked up and set the ivy on the stands on either side of the closed casket. Derek’s body was so busted up during the crash that his casket wouldn’t be opened. But his senior portrait was on an easel in front of the casket. He’d been a nice-looking guy.
I sat down beside Stiller. His eyes were red and puffy. The rest of him was clean for a change. “Hey, Chuck.”
He didn’t answer.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” I said, hoping he’d realize I was sincere. The next thing I knew, his fist cracked my jaw. The blow stunned me, knocking me off the pew and onto the floor. I stood up and rubbed my cheek.
“Get away from me, Kevin,” he scowled. Snot started running from his nose, and his eyes were glassy and unresponsive. “Get away from me.” He slumped his head back against the wall and rubbed his fist across his eyes. “Please, just get away from me.”
I didn’t want to argue with Chuck. I didn’t want to hit him back. And believe it or not, I wasn’t even mad that he’d hit me. I looked back at him as I left the chapel. He was cowered in the corner of the pew like an injured dog—afraid of the pain, afraid of where he was, and afraid of the circumstances that had put him there. And it was only natural for him to lash out at what he didn’t understand.
Chapter Eighteen
I took my place at the front door. My jaw still throbbed from Stiller’s punch. It was beginning to swell, and I hoped it didn’t look too bad. Visitation was about to start, and there wasn’t time to put ice on it or even splash it with cold water. So in spite of the heat I felt rising from my jawbone, I tried to pretend like nothing happened.
Of course, Mom would have to notice. She walked past me, then did a double take.
“Kevin, honey, what in the world did you do to your face?”
“It’s fine, Mom.”
She touched it gently, but I still flinched. “My gosh, Kevin, this looks awful!” She leaned into my face, giving me that suspicious mother expression. “I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”
“Nothin’ Mom. It’s fine—probably just a zit.”
She pointed at her face. “Do I look stupid to you?” That one was too easy. I started to make a cute remark but she put her hand over my mouth. “Never mind that,” she said. “Since you don’t want to talk, I won’t press—but if your jaw starts bothering you, let me know, and I’ll get Marcy to fill in for you.” She patted my good cheek and left to check the chapel. I thought about how Stiller had never known his mother. Mom got on my nerves sometimes, but even though I’d been mad at her about the move—and about Kelsey—I hoped I’d never know what life would be like without her.
The black Corvette was still in the parking lot. A man in a dark pinstriped suit got out and walked to the door. He passed me like I was invisible. He was tall and had sandy blond hair. He wore sunglasses but didn’t take them off when he came inside. And there was a sweet, yeasty smell about him, one I wasn’t familiar with.
He stood in the hall with his hands in his pockets, jingling his keys. Marcy walked by,
and he raised his sunglasses. He watched her as she walked to the guest kitchen. It was the only time I saw his eyes the whole night.
Mom stepped out of the chapel. “Mr. Stiller,” she said as she reached out to shake his hand, “is there anything you need?”
So this was Chuck’s dad. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes underneath his glasses. “That’s kind of you Mrs. Kirk—or may I call you Freda?” He stopped wiping his tears long enough to run his index finger across her name tag. He was still holding her other hand. I began to wonder just how wet his handkerchief really was.
Mom began to fidget. “Mrs. Kirk would be better,” she said as she pulled her hand away from his. “But if you need anything, let us know.”
Mr. Sincerity dabbed his eyes again. “You’ve been so kind. I don’t know how to thank you. This has been so hard for me.” He put his arm around Mom’s waist, and her face turned red. She peeled his arm away. I forgot about my hot jaw. Now my whole face was on fire. The jerk was flirting with my mother!
I held my radio behind my back and beeped Mom’s. She looked at me and understood. “If you need something, Mr. Stiller, any member of our staff will be glad to help. Now if you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I have to assist my husband.” Mom removed her radio from her belt and nodded at me, then went into the office. Dad was in there, filling out paperwork. Later, I saw her go upstairs. She didn’t come down again the rest of the night.
The next day during lunch, I told Dani everything. “I don’t know Chuck’s dad,” she said, “I just know what I’ve heard about him from my parents. My mom says he’s a slimeball. But Dad says there must be some charm about him, because every time he sees him he has a different girlfriend.”
When school was out, Mom was waiting for me. “You’re going to have to help this afternoon,” Mom said as I clicked my seat belt. “I’ll be upstairs. Marshall said he’d help too. If he has any questions, you can show him what to do.”
I didn’t have to ask Mom why she was staying upstairs, and I knew that she knew I understood. When we got home, I put on my black suit and purple tie and put the worm in my pocket.
Marshall was setting up folding chairs in the back of the chapel. Dad was in the front, arranging flowers. Several new pots had arrived. “Y
ou want me to get some more stands from the garage?” I asked.
“That would be great,” Dad answered as he wrestled with some stray ivy. “I could use four, at least.”
I went out the front entrance and around the building to the hearse garage. It was still a couple of hours before the funeral. The parking lot was empty except for Mr. Stiller’s black Corvette, and it was off in the side lot instead of in its place as part of the funeral procession behind the hearse. No one else knew the Stillers were there.
I went inside the garage and found the stands under an old tarp. They were dusty, so I wiped them down with an old rag. Then a loud thump shook the outside wall.
I heard a voice: “Stop, Dad—”
Then a louder whump, this time as if something had been thrown against the wall. I ran out the door and eased my way around the side of the garage.
Chuck whimpered. “Please, Dad, please—”
Mr. Stiller had his son pinned against the wall. He forced Chuck’s arm behind his back in an unnatural twist.
“Please don’t break it again, Dad. Please.”
“You make me sick,” Mr. Stiller said. The words slurred out of his mouth, thick and slow. He let go and Chuck dropped to the pavement.
Mr. Stiller picked up the flat bottle at his feet and took a drink. Then he pitched the bottle hard into the field beyond the parking lot.
The odd odor I’d smelled on Stan Stiller the night before was whiskey.
Chuck rolled over and made a weak attempt to crawl away. Mr. Stiller slammed his shoe into the small of Chuck’s back. “Get up, you stupid little pig!”
Chuck curled in pain, but didn’t make a sound.
I ran to the front of the garage just in time to throw up. I wiped my face and mouth with my handkerchief. Another spasm, and I leaned over, hands on my knees, and threw up again. Water ran from my eyes and a couple of drops hit my freshly polished shoes. I wiped my mouth again. My hands trembled.
Now I knew why Stiller was dirty and mean and always coming to school bruised up. I thought about how many times I’d been so angry I wanted to beat him up, to make him scared of me. But I couldn’t imagine anything worse than being scared of your own father.
I’d never prayed before, and didn’t think I knew how. But it must be something people are born with, like an instinct. Oh God, I cried inside, I’m so sorry now for being mad at Chuck, for not trying to understand him. Please help him, God. Please.
I tiptoed back to the other side of the garage.
“Why couldn’t you be like your brother?” Mr. Stiller’s voice was colder—and deader—than any corpse we’d ever had in the Paramount. “You’re too much like your mother. I wish you’d died with her. How come Derek had to be the one to die?”
Chuck rose up on shaky legs. Mr. Stiller slapped him hard across the face, knocking him into the wall again. Chuck’s body went limp and began to slide, but before he totally collapsed his father pulled him up by his hair.
“Look at you.” Mr. Stiller spit into Chuck’s face. “You can’t even keep from wettin’ on yourself.” He expelled his disgust in long, drunken breaths: “I hate you.”
He let go, and Chuck tumbled into a crumpled, beaten heap, lying in his own urine.
I didn’t know what to do. I had to do something, but what? Mr. Stiller was bigger and stronger than me, not to mention drunk to the point of being senseless, so drunk that he couldn’t tell he was killing his own son.
I had never been so scared—or felt so helpless—in all my life.
But I was more afraid for Chuck.
Chuck moaned, and Mr. Stiller reached for him again. I pulled out the radio. My hands were shaking like crazy.
“Dad,” I whispered, “call 911.”
No answer. Were the batteries dead? I tried again. Still no answer. Mr. Stiller had Chuck back on his feet. More than anything, I wanted my father. He would know what to do.
I wanted my mother. Her face flashed through my mind. Chuck had probably wanted his mom too, many times. But his mother had been dead for years. The thought made my churning stomach hurt even worse.
I wanted to take back all the mean things I’d said to Mom about moving, about the Paramount, and especially about Kelsey.
I felt so weak, confused, and powerless.
Oh God, I prayed again, don’t let Chuck die.
I didn’t know what else to do.
Dear God, please help Chuck.
I put the radio back in my pocket, and someone said, Help him.
Help him? How? What could I do? Mr. Stiller had Chuck up against the wall again. Chuck didn’t care anymore, didn’t even sniffle. My blood was pumping so hard the ends of my fingers and toes throbbed.
The woodpile!
Help him! Help him, Kevin!
I grabbed a length of two-by-four from the mound of scrap lumber beside the garage. I ran around to the back and, with my best home run swing, whopped Mr. Stiller in the back as hard as I could.
Mr. Stiller fell forward, and he loosened his grip on Chuck. Chuck fell to the pavement again, and from the corner of my eye I could see him trying to use his good arm to scoot away.
“This is none of your business!” Mr. Stiller yelled. “None of your business!”
He lunged toward me.
Swing again! Swing now!
I swung the board again, hard as I could, and hit him on his left side, knocking him off balance. But I lost my footing too. Disoriented, I dropped the board and teetered the wrong way, toward the garage.
Mr. Stiller sprang like a panther and pinned me to the wall. He pressed his forearm across my neck and leaned into my face. His gold chains jingled, and the whiskey smell on his breath made me want to vomit again.
“Get away from me.” His growl sounded strangely like his son’s. “Get away from me or Daddy will be burying you next.”
I heard a loud crack, and Mr. Stiller’s eyes rounded. He staggered back.
Dad was behind him, holding the same piece of wood I’d used on Mr. Stiller. I heard sirens.
Mr. Stiller swung at Dad, but Dad was quicker and decked him with an undercut. Mr. Stiller rolled on the ground, cursing Dad, and swearing he’d come back with a gun and shoot every one of us.
And there was Mom, kneeling beside Chuck. She raised his shoulders and cradled him in her arms. She took off her scarf and wiped his face.
“He won’t hurt you anymore,” I heard Mom whisper. She rocked him back and forth, as if she were rocking a baby. “Everything’s going to be all right now.”
Stiller’s good arm went up around her neck, and she smoothed his hair with her hand. She looked at Dad. Her own hair was disheveled. Her mascara had run off her eyelashes and down her face, leaving black stripes on her cheeks. Her bottom lip quivered.
“Is Kevin hurt?” she mouthed.
Dad shook his head no.
Drizzle began to fall from the darkening sky.
Two police officers ran over. One called for an ambulance and some backup. All the energy drained out of my legs. I grabbed Dad’s arm to stay on my feet.
“Hang on, Kev,” Dad said.
Mom held thirteen-year-old Chuck Stiller in her lap. The asphalt had torn her hose to shreds, and her green silk dress was blackened and snagged.
Stiller clung to Mom for dear life. She kept him in a tight embrace near her heart and whispered something in his ear. I didn’t understand what she said.
But as I watched her comfort Chuck, I felt like I was beginning to understand my mother.
My legs weakened again. Dad knew it before I did, because he put his arm around me to keep me steady before I had a chance to fall. I could feel his arm tighten as he held me up. I’d forgotten the familiar feeling of his skin against mine, and how he always smelled like Dial soap. It was the safest, most comforting smell in the world.
Thank you, God, I prayed inside again. Thank you for my mom and dad. Thank you for listening. Thank you for helping me when I was most afraid.
The drizzle tur
ned into a steady rain.
Dad put his other arm around me, and I let him hug me—something I hadn’t done in a long time. Before I could stop it, a tear mixed with the rain on my face and dripped off my chin. “I love you so much, Dad.”
“I know, Son.”
I couldn’t stand it any longer. I buried my face in his shoulder. “I don’t think I tell you enough,” I sobbed into his shirt. “I don’t think I appreciate you enough.”
Dad hugged me tighter, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then his shoulders began to tremble. Soon he was crying too. Crying like that day I saw him in the chapel—the day I learned about Kelsey.
“I love you too, Son,” he whispered, his voice shaky. “I don’t tell you that enough, either.”
Chapter Nineteen
I couldn’t sleep that night. I thrashed around in the bed and kept thinking of all the awful things Chuck’s dad had said. I could still see the pain on Chuck’s face when his dad said, “I hate you.” I didn’t know which one would hurt more, the words or the punches. How could a father say or do those things to his own son?
I stayed home from school the rest of the week. Mom rented movies to keep me occupied, and Marshall brought me Hunk-O-Choklit bars every day. Marcy said I was her hero, and she knew those chin-ups would pay off someday.
Dani called me every day after school and came to see me that Friday night, along with her dad. While she helped me catch up on homework, President Carter sat in the kitchen with Mom and Dad and talked with them for a long time. When Dani and her dad were ready to leave, Dad asked President Carter to give a prayer. We had never had any kind of prayer as a family before. But as I knelt between my parents and listened to the words of President Carter’s prayer, I thought about how God had blessed me with good parents, something I’d never considered until we moved to the Paramount. As they left, Dani hugged me good-bye—in front of her dad, without even acting embarrassed. And President Carter shook Dad’s hand, telling him to call when he felt ready to come back, whatever that meant.
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