Silent Alarm

by Jennifer Banash

  I hear the slight shuffling sound of feet against the hard floor, and a long silence spreads thickly through the room.

  “You’re right,” my father says, almost inaudibly, and I lean slightly forward. “I should’ve known. We should’ve known. Shouldn’t we have?”

  “I don’t know.” My mother sighs again, and I hear a creak as she sits down. “How could we have? All I know is that something changed in these last few years—all those nights he spent in his room, locking himself away from us . . .” She stops for a moment, and I picture her hands in her hair, wrapping it around her fingers, pulling at it. “I thought it was a phase—that it would pass.”

  “Some phase,” my father says bitterly, his voice etched with acid.

  “The lawyer says we need to write a statement. We should have released something to the press already.”

  I picture Bob Lane, my parents’ lawyer, his tie in an expert knot. Of course they would’ve spoken to their lawyer. All those

  (victims)

  wanting something from us. Some kind of compensation. Retribution, even. I wrap my arms around my knees, hugging them to my chest.

  “Fuck the press.”

  “I feel the same way.” My mother shifts in her seat, and I imagine her crossing her long legs over each other, one elbow on her knee. The way she always sits when she’s worried, or lost in thought. “But Bob says we have to do it. He said it will look worse if we keep quiet—people might start thinking we’re complicit, that we condone Luke’s . . . actions. All of those children, just . . . gone . . .” Her voice trails off. “For God’s sake, Paul, Jesse Davis is in the hospital in intensive care. They don’t know if he’s going to wake up or, if he does, what kind of brain damage he’ll have. His poor parents. I can’t imagine.”

  Jesse Davis was a senior, like Luke. Class president this year and scheduled to be valedictorian. Harvard bound in the fall. Always had a smile for everyone, even freshmen. The idea that Luke shot him is inconceivable. Monstrous.

  Maybe it was an accident, like Katie—just like Katie . . .

  My heart sinks in my chest, and I shut my eyes. I feel Luke’s presence moving over me, through me even, something barbecued, all smoke and cinders, petals on fire. When I open my eyes, Luke is there beside me. I can feel the heat from his body on my legs, my arms.

  His gaze is focused on my parents at the bottom of the stairs, and he cranes his neck a bit in order to hear them better, maybe catch a glimpse. His whole body gleams, a shimmering mass of light and shadow. I can hear him breathing, the sound the air makes moving through his chest, his face fractured by the light.

  “What are they bitching about?” Luke asks without turning to look at me, his tone vaguely amused, the curve and contour of his cheek still smooth, radiant, as if pinpricks of light flicker softly beneath his skin.

  “You,” I say, putting my hand on his leg and leaving it there. But, to my surprise, he doesn’t fade. I can feel the heat from his skin passing through my fingers, the temperature growing hotter by the second. “They’re bitching about you,” I manage to stammer. I feel sick, dizzy, the stairwell narrowing like the walls of a fun house.

  He’s warm. And he’s really here. At least for now . . .

  “Huh,” he says, nonplussed. “Typical.”

  I move closer, lean my head on his shoulder though the stink of fire is almost overwhelming. Hot coals and lilies. My brother, I think, closing my eyes, listening to the sound of Luke’s breathing, the impossibility of it, his unwashed maple-syrup scent rising up through the ashes.

  My brother did this.

  Parents of shooter Lucas Aronson ask for “compassion and prayers”

  In a statement released today the parents of Plainewood High School gunman Lucas Aronson, who shot and killed fifteen students, called the shooting an “appalling act of violence.”

  Addressing the families of the victims directly, Paul and Dani Aronson stated that they had “no explanation” for their son’s actions, and that their grief for the families affected by the tragedy was “simply overwhelming.”

  In closing, they expressed gratitude to the community of Plainewood for their “support, compassion, and prayers in this very dark time.”

  The family asked for the media and the public at large to respect their privacy, as “we too have also suffered a loss, the loss of our only son, Luke.”

  In an interview on Good Morning America, Phyllis Germain, the mother of 15-year-old Mila Germain, who was killed in the attack, expressed disbelief in a lack of clear motive for the fatal shooting that left fifteen dead and four injured.

  “Well, it’s about morals, isn’t it? And it all comes down to the parents,” Ms. Germain stated. “Things like this don’t happen if you’re raising your kids with decent values.”

  Officials report that a Facebook page appearing to belong to Aronson contained “disturbing messages,” including what is believed to be a short story detailing a mass murder at a local shopping mall.

  Four days before the shooting, Aronson posted a rant in the “notes” section of his Facebook page, describing a man who takes revenge on the “arrogant fools” who once ignored him. The note ends with these words: “You’re all going to die.”

  Victims Alyssa Jones, 16, and Regina Parks, 17, are reportedly in stable condition at Plainewood Memorial Hospital. Plainewood High School Principal David Clarke was treated for minor injuries and released. Jesse Davis, 18, who sustained a gunshot wound to the head during the attack, remains in critical condition.

  Aronson was buried yesterday in Saint Anne’s Memorial Cemetery.

  ELEVEN

  The morning after the statement is released, I’m sore and achy, like I’ve slept on a pile of rocks. I tossed and turned all night, finally giving up around four, and just stared at the ceiling for two hours, willing the daylight to come, my eyes puffy and dry. It’s early, and the house is quiet, the clocks ticking off the minutes. I slip on a pair of dark skinny jeans and the same black sweater I wore yesterday, pulling at the tangles in my hair with my fingers. What’s the point of brushing it? Good grooming won’t change anything.

  My phone buzzes with a text, and I look down to see Riley’s name, along with, You awake? Sleepless, the both of us: a matching pair. Except we’re not—I’m in this alone, despite how badly Riley may feel about what has happened, what he did or didn’t do. I shut off the phone and move downstairs, ignoring the half-open door that beckons, tempting me as I pass Luke’s room.

  Our den is worn and comfortable, with yellow walls the color of weak winter sunlight, my dad’s heavy leather chair, matching couch, and a rug in graduated shades of beige and bronze covering the scuffed wood floors. When the set springs to life, I stand back as if it might burn me with its incandescent glow. I switch on CNN, and my brother’s face appears almost instantly. He stares right at me, a close-up, his eyes flat and lifeless. I slowly sink to the floor, the remote slipping from my hands and dropping with a soft thudding sound onto the carpet. I want to think that I’m still dreaming, tossing and turning restlessly in my bed. But as much as I want to believe it, I know this is really happening. I watch helplessly as Luke holds up a rifle, the same one I saw in the library, and waves it menacingly at the camera. He’s in his room—I recognize the dark green walls, the globe perched on top of his wooden dresser. He loads the gun, cocking it, his face set in concentration, and I watch transfixed for a minute or two before I realize that the TV is on mute. I scramble to pick up the remote and turn the volume up just as my brother disappears, replaced by a newscaster’s sharp silent gaze, hair combed straight back from his overly tanned face, his red tie an affront to my senses.

  “Once again, that is leaked footage from the computer of Wisconsin shooter Lucas Aronson. The file was released anonymously to the press this morning and Plainewood police have not yet issued a statement explaining how this kind of breach could have
occurred in the midst of a sealed investigation.”

  The camera pulls back, and I see a blond anchorwoman sitting next to him, wearing a crisp white blouse, her makeup so heavy and caked on that my own pores feel on the verge of asphyxiation just from looking at her.

  “You really hope that at a time like this, Bob, the families of the victims aren’t watching,” she says, shaking her head.

  The camera dissolves and there is Luke’s face again. He’s yelling into the camera—Luke, who I have heard angry, really furious, maybe twice in my entire life. My brother is not a screamer, someone who rants and raves uncontrollably. Luke is a bottler, as my mother would say. He must have stifled his feelings for years, sitting on them, holding everything inside, stone-faced until

  (he exploded)

  He holds the gun up defiantly and waves it over his head before pointing it at the screen, cocking it, and everything stops. He looks straight into the camera, his eyes squinting slightly. I can see him breathing heavily, panting almost. If this person is my brother, I don’t know him.

  “What’s going on here?”

  My father in the doorway, frozen, my mother standing behind him, still in her nightgown. My cheeks burn hot with shame, as if somehow I am responsible.

  “I just turned on the TV and—”

  My mother pushes past my father, shoving his body aside, and rushes toward the screen, drawn to Luke’s flickering image.

  “How did they . . .” She points at the TV, then turns to me, unable to finish, her eyes wide and frantic. I can see by the dark patches below them that she hasn’t been sleeping any better than I have, that maybe she hasn’t been sleeping at all. “Where did this . . .”

  “Turn it off,” my father orders.

  No one moves. My mother and I, both prisoners to the images flickering across the screen, Luke’s harsh voice, screaming about punishment and retribution, chilling my blood until it slows in my veins, sluggish and icy.

  “This is your fault. All of you. Now you’re going to die.”

  “I SAID TURN IT THE FUCK OFF!”

  My father strides over, grabbing the remote from my hand with such force that I wobble and almost capsize. He hits the power button, and Luke’s face vanishes.

  “Noooooooooooooo,” my mother screams, grabbing at my father’s arms, her hands reaching violently for the remote. “Give him back! Give him back to meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” Her screams rise higher, the sound somehow worse than my brother’ s ranting.

  (meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee)

  My father throws the remote across the room. It hits the wall above the couch and shatters, breaking into pieces. I back away, my heart beating frantically. I can’t catch my breath, and I don’t recognize these people who raised me, held me in their arms when I was cold or sick. I don’t recognize myself. He grabs my mother’s shoulders and shakes her, her head flopping forward and back. She’s wailing now. The couch is suddenly against my legs, and I sit down abruptly, as if pushed from a great distance.

  “I can’t give him back!” my father yells in her face. “Dani, look at me.” My mother ignores him, lost in her own hysteria, eyes wild and unseeing, twisting her torso away from my father’s grip. “He’s gone. He’s gone now.” My mother’s body deflates in his arms all at once, as if the air has suddenly been let out of her, the anger vanishing, replaced by something so much worse, I don’t dare contemplate it.

  Shame.

  I have never seen my mother ashamed of either me or Luke. She’s always gone out of her way to praise us, to tell the both of us how proud she is to be our mother. But there’s no mistaking the look on her face. My father rocks her in his arms like an infant, a bizarre reversal of their argument last night—now my father is the strong one, the one offering comfort, holding her up. My mother’s sobs wrench at my gut, twisting it, and as I begin to cry, watching her, I wonder how much longer we can go on like this, how much more we can take.

  The doorbell rings. My father looks up, startled, and in his weary gaze I can see that no matter what waits behind our front door, he is already expecting the worst. This tears at me more than almost anything else. What has always defined my dad is his openness toward the world, his generosity toward strangers, his unflagging belief that with a positive attitude, Luke and I could accomplish just about anything. From the slump of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, his wary expression, I know that, once and for all, those days are over. My father is someone else now. Someone who will never let his guard down or approach the world with open arms. He’ll forever be looking around the corner, ever watchful, afraid of what lurks just out of sight.

  He gets up, leaving my mother, who is on her knees, sobbing helplessly, her shoulders shaking beneath her white nightgown. I go to her, kneel down, and she latches on to me, her body hot with grief. “Mom,” I whisper. “It’s okay, Mom, it’s okay.” I say this over and over again, and she is heavy in my arms, her eyes closed, tears running rivers down her smooth cheeks. I hear voices in the front hall, the tone officious and impersonal. When I look up, it is at the sound of approaching feet, my heart scattering in my chest like a scared rabbit.

  “Detective Marino is here,” my father says, his face drained of all color. “He has some new information about Luke.” He looks at my mother, her white flannel nightgown billowing around her slight frame. “I’ll get your robe, Dani.” My mother gets to her feet, wiping her eyes and nodding at nothing at all. “Alys,” my father says distractedly, as if he’s just realized that I’m still in the room, “you should go upstairs now.”

  I look at my father, incredulous.

  “No way.”

  My father’s stance is defiant, robe pulled around his body like a tourniquet, rough patches of stubble covering his cheeks. “You don’t need to hear this, Alys,” my father says, irritated now, out of patience, the way he always is when I argue with him. “Just go to your room.”

  “He was my brother,” I yell, and time seems to stand still. “He belonged to me too,” I say, the words coming out with a surprising amount of force. “Did you ever think of that? Besides, everything is all over the TV, the newspapers, the Web! Do you really think you’ll be able to keep it from me? It’s out there—where everyone can see it!”

  We stand there for a long moment until he turns away from me, dropping his eyes, defeated.

  “All right,” he says, more to my mother than to me. My mother nods almost imperceptibly, her hair matted and disheveled.

  “All right, then.”

  • • •

  In the kitchen, I sit between my mother and father at the table, my mother’s hand wrapped around mine. Detective Marino sits across from us, a manila folder in front of him. His suit looks rumpled, like he’s slept in it for a few nights, on a couch somewhere. My mother gets up, turns on the coffeemaker, and the machine comes to life with a slow hiss as the dark, rich scent drifts slowly through the room. She sits back down, bracing herself, her face drawn with fatigue.

  “What the hell is going on?” My father speaks through gritted teeth, his face hardened.

  Detective Marino’s hair is steel gray, and reminds me of a scouring pad. His blue eyes look as tired and watery as they did on his last visit, as if at any moment they might spill over with tears. “I want to apologize on the behalf of the entire police department for the leak this morning. We’re looking into it, and, rest assured, we’ll have some answers in due time.” Marino leans his elbows on the table, still wearing his coat, even though the heat’s on and the temperature in the kitchen borders on stifling. “But obviously the video raises some new questions. And then there’s this.” Marino opens the folder and removes the top sheet of paper, pushing it across the table.

  “Were you aware that Luke had posted a note on Facebook four days before the shooting?” I pull the paper toward me, unable to stop my hand from reac
hing out and grabbing it, anger and disgust rising off of the page like steam.

  (—and the arrogant fools who walk these halls will face my wrath. It is I who decides your fate, not God. I will hunt you down, split your skulls like walnut shells, grind you to powder, destroy everything you hold dear. You’ve taken so much from me—all of you. Now you’re going to die—)

  My mouth goes dry, the coffeemaker emitting a strangled sound, a gurgling. I look up, helpless. Maybe someone hacked Luke’s page; maybe he posted it as a prank, a joke. Maybe it was an assignment for that creative writing elective he was taking.

  It was him, something whispers inside me. It was him, he meant every word—and you know it. It’s right there in front of you in black and white. His words, so full of rage and hate and the disappointment we never knew he felt at all. Look at them.

  My mother takes the paper, her lips moving as she reads, forehead creased in concentration.

  “Alys, did you see this post before the incident?” Marino’s voice is soft, as if he’s afraid of scaring me, jarring me into action. “Did any of you?”

  My mother pushes the paper at my father, who hands it to Marino without looking at it.

  “No?” Detective Marino addresses my father, his eyebrows slightly raised.

  “I saw it in the newspaper, but that’s not the way I want to remember my son.”

  “Did any of you see this post before the incident?” the detective repeats, his eyes flitting between the three of us, not sure of where to land.

  “I don’t use Facebook that much anymore,” I say. There is a long pause, and Marino’s chair creaks loudly as he shifts his weight. “But even if I had logged on, I probably wouldn’t have looked at his page, anyway.” I stare at the wooden tabletop, digging my nail into a gouge in the wood, feeling along its deep ridge. “Luke liked his privacy. I mean, he friended me, but said he didn’t want me commenting on his posts all the time. He said it was bad enough that we went to the same high school. I guess I kind of saw his point.”