A Shadow Passed Over the Son

by Ryan Schneider

“I’m so dead.” Parker’s mother glanced at the rear view mirror for the third time.

  “Mom. Relax,” said Parker. “It’s one day of school. Besides, it’s my birthday. Remember?”

  “Yes, of course I remember.” She relaxed into the driver’s seat and looked at him. She smiled. Her eyes flitted to the mirror again.

  “Mom.”

  “Sorry.” Her eyes flitted back to him. “This is a tow-away zone.”

  “They’re not going to tow the car with us sitting in it.”

  “If your father finds out you spent the day playing video games, we can say you played hooky because it’s your birthday. But if I get a ticket for parking in a red zone outside the arcade, we won’t get off so lucky.”

  “Fine. Go to school. Go teach.” He reached for the door handle.

  “You sure you have enough money?”

  “Yes. You gave me more than enough.” He smiled and opened the door.

  “Don’t tell your father. You know how he is about earning things.” Her eyes drifted to the rear view mirror again. “Is that a cop?”

  Parker looked over his shoulder. “No. It’s a taxi.” He put one foot out.

  “What time are you meeting me back here?”

  “Three.”

  “We have to hurry to meet your father or he’ll know we were up to something.”

  “I know.”

  “What time?”

  “Three.”

  “You’re sure you have enough money?”

  She sat behind the wheel, more matronly than usual in her work clothes, a long skirt and button-down sweater, hair piled atop her head like it always was in the mornings, with two blond strands framing her eyes. “Yes, mom. Go teach.”

  She smiled. An odd, different smile.

  He didn’t know what it meant. “What?”

  “Nothing.” She looked at him, the mirror forgotten. “You’re getting to be so handsome. You look more like your father every day.”

  “Dad says I remind him of you.”

  She smiled again. “Does the watch fit?”

  He held up his wrist. “Perfectly.”

  “Good. He spent a lot of time shopping for the one you wanted. Make sure you turn it off until after school. We can at least pretend we’re following the rules. You’ll get my gift at dinner. I love you. My hope.”

  “Mom, please.”

  “What? It’s not every day my little boy turns ten.”

  “Go teach.”

  “Fine. Go . . . kick . . . . What is it you’re kicking, exactly?”

  “Plasma.”

  “Right. Go kick some plasma. And, uh, ‘Take it to the max.’ ” She pointed her finger at the sky. “You’re sure you have enough money? Parker?”

  He wasn’t listening. He studied the watch, remembering last night, minutes before his father had given it to him. He’d walked in on his parents, found them shouting at each other. He’d barely slept because of it. And he’d had a horrible nightmare. It had mostly faded now. But he recalled a girl screaming.

  Halfway out the car door, he paused. “Last night, what were you and dad arguing about?”

  “Grown up stuff.”

  “Are you getting a divorce?”

  Her eyes widened in horror. “A divorce? No, absolutely not. I love you and your father more than life itself. I would never leave. Either of you. Why would you think we’re getting a divorce?”

  “You were arguing last night. When I came in, you stopped. It seemed like it had something to do with me.”

  Her eyebrows lifted and she smiled. She shook her head, caring but conflicted. “Respectful disagreements are perfectly healthy.” She checked the rear-view mirror again, then checked the little round silver watch on her own wrist. “I have to go. You know how Midtown is in the morning.”

  He sat on the edge of his seat, looking at her. The wide red strap of his Go-Boy backpack hung on his shoulder.

  She smiled wider. “This is a topic for some other time, honey. It’s your birthday, remember?”

  He got out and closed the car door, not entirely convinced.

  She smiled. “Have fun!”

  A siren woop-WOOP! behind them. A blue and white cruiser had pulled up, NYPD on the door. The big man behind the wheel held up both hands: I’m waiting . . . .

  “See!” She waved at the officer and threw the shift lever into Drive. “I am so dead.”

  She waved again, this time at Parker. Suddenly she seemed young again. Her essence, her silliness and ignorance of how beautiful she was, outshone her years for a moment, a second or two. Then she was mom again.

  “I love you!” She drove away, still smiling. Her head tilted as she watched him in her rearview mirror. Then she was swallowed up by the morning traffic.

  The police car remained at the red curb. Its steam engine purred. Tendrils of moisture wafted from the tailpipes and melted into the unseasonably cool July morning air. The police officer hunched sideways, his right hand on the headrest of the passenger seat, watching Parker. His radio crackled. A woman’s garbled voice droned out of it. The officer watched Parker for a moment longer, then stabbed a button on the dash and the red and blue lights atop the car sprang to life. The officer whipped the car out into traffic. Several taxis and a double-decker sightseeing bus screeched to a halt. The taxi drivers honked and the bus’s brakes squealed. The wide-eyed passengers on the upper deck bobbed forward in unison as the bus stopped, many of them shooting pictures and video of the hurried police car.

  Parker turned and walked down the wide sidewalk toward the long row of silver doors which led into the mall. Men and women wearing business suits and athletic shoes streamed out of the crowded stairwells leading up from the Penn Station subway station. Warm subway air engulfed him as he passed. He inhaled deeply, relishing the unique smell of the subway: warm air, almost stifling, tinged with grease and mechanical things, the smell of the trains, and the smell of rich, fried food, of freshly-popped popcorn.

  Parker rode the elevator eighty floors to the top of the mall. The arcade was nearly empty. Two guys played pinball in the corner. Their long hair rested on their shoulders. Each had a pack of cigarettes rolled into the sleeve of his wrinkled black t-shirt. High school guys. Cutting, like him. They saw him and smiled in appreciation.

  The Go-Boy simulators were all unoccupied. The robots stood like sentries, waiting to be guided. He went to his favorite, the one that fit the best and had the fastest reaction time and lowest ping.

  Number thirteen.

  Parker climbed in and closed the canopy, giving it the little wiggle right at the end, to make a good seal.

  He was in. He dropped his backpack on the floor and fastened the wide red straps of the safety harness around his chest. He took out the faded, crinkled bank card his mom had recharged for him and inserted it in the slot.

  The cockpit lights flicked on. The soft hum of the cooling fans speeding up. The scent of dust and electronics. “Bring on the war mice.” He tapped the inside of the canopy touch-screen.

  Orange clouds filled the canopy view. The sun was setting behind distant mountains, half a glowing red circle sinking below the black terrain.

  The sim moved and his weight settled onto the wide red straps of the harness. He was flying. Just like Colby and Igby. By the time eight o’clock rolled around, bringing with it the World Premiere of Go-Boy . . . Unleashed, he would be ready.

  Far below, on the ground, lay a city. Somewhere inside it lurked the enemy. Parker angled his body downward and throttled up. He raised his arms, un-safed his cannons, and prepared for battle.

  An hour later, he was sweating, twisting his body side to side, climbing and banking, diving and rolling, trying to get the bad guys off his tail. He’d been hit twice, grazed really, was low on bullets, and was outnumbered twenty-to-one. Not even Colby went up against that many. There’d be another new high score after this one. All of the top ten high-scores already bore his initials P.J.P.

  His new
watch rang.

  Lost in the moment of the game, he tapped the watch face without thinking. “Hello?”

  “Parker?”

  Uh-oh. Parker stabbed the Pause button, freezing the game. He looked at his watch. His dad looked back at him, then leaned closer and his face appeared larger.

  “Where are you? I figured you’d have your phone off. Aren’t you supposed to be in Algebra?”

  The cockpit was too quiet. Just the far away sounds of pinball paddles flapping, and the low hiss of his dad’s call. “I’m . . . in the bathroom.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t sound convinced. “I was calling to tell you I got tickets to the eight o’clock show, the big theater, like we talked about. And good seats, in the middle. Why is the bathroom so dark?”

  Parker reached for the dial to increase the cockpit lights. The dial stuck, then came free, and his hand slipped. His finger touched the Pause button, restarting the game.

  “Take it to the max!” declared the voice of Colby Max.

  Parker slapped the Pause button again. Silence.

  “Are you at the arcade? Why aren’t you in school?” His dad shook his head slowly from side to side. “I can’t believe this. You think because it’s your birthday you don’t need to go to class? You know how I feel about you getting an education. You are not going to be a code monkey like me.”

  “I like writing code.”

  “Parker, listen to me. There used to be a time when writing code was a prestigious, elite, even noble profession. But these days it’s about as glamorous as digging ditches under an outhouse. I even gave you your birthday present early. And this is how you behave. I think you’d better take off that watch until you’re ready to give more than you take.” He squinted into the camera, as if listening for something. He was thinking, realizing something else. “How did you get there? Did your mother drop you off? Is she in on this?”

  “No, I—”

  “She’s so dead.” His dad looked around his office again, then leaned back in his big black chair. “You enjoy yourself today, Parker. I’ll see you and your mom at the restaurant later.”

  The call ended. Parker’s watch went blank.

  Now what?

  Get out? Go to school? Go home? Or stay and “enjoy” himself, like his dad said. As if that were possible now.

  Heavy thumping sounds rolled through the building. Just a few at first, far away. Then more, a lot more, coming closer. Coming fast.

  Outside the sim, outside the arcade, Parker heard sounds, high-pitched shrieks and squeals like the brakes on the subway cars. It wasn’t brakes. It was people . . . screaming.

  Before Parker could move, the walls groaned, flexed, and imploded, crushed by the shockwave. Then the sound of the explosion hit. The steady ringing of glass the instant it shatters. Pinball machines flew through the air. The simulators piled up like dominoes. Parker’s head whipped sideways. He was falling. The entire room around him was falling, collapsing, taking him with it. He was inside a tornado, blind, holding tight to the safety harness. He landed hard on his back. Ringing in his ears. No air in his lungs.

  Something hit the outside of the simulator, smashed against it. Stuck there. A bloody face, obscure on the other side of the dirty canopy. Brown, shoulder-length hair and black t-shirt. Eyes open. Blue eyes. Staring at nothing. Illuminated by the soft glow of the cockpit lighting.

  Parker stared at the face on the other side of the canopy. Tried to breathe. No air to scream. No sound. No light beyond the cockpit glow. Muffled darkness and the distinct impression of being buried under a pile of rubble.

  Buried alive.

  Chapter 2

  A Miracle