Kindred

by Stein, Tammar

  “Guy’s clear too,” a different voice says.

  With my head cocked, I see Jason pulled up, his arms behind his back in cuffs. Then it’s my turn to be dragged up, like fish yanked from water.

  A policeman wearing rubber gloves emerges from the back of the duplex, carrying two semiautomatic rifles. I stand in the bustling room, dumbfounded by how quickly everything is unraveling. Thinking is like swimming through mud. Stupid with shock, I cannot figure out how my success has been snatched away.

  “Look what I found under the bed,” the policeman crows.

  Another man, in plain clothes, has already picked up the notebook and is flipping through it.

  “It’s all here,” he says as he scans the pages. “Sick bastard.”

  Someone asks me my name, and numbly I give it. He writes it down, and asks for my telephone number and address. With a growing sense of indignation, I realize one of them has opened my wallet and is flipping through my credit cards, studying my driver’s license.

  Jason is already being led away, and I can hear the plainclothes guy reading him his rights. Then someone is standing in front of me.

  “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney.…” I stop paying attention. I don’t need an attorney. I need a miracle.

  There are several men in the living room, taking photographs, searching the apartment. The adrenaline rush that propelled them through the door has dissipated. It’s business as usual now, and I can’t stand it.

  My mind suddenly explodes into real time. The meaning of everything that just happened, of everything that will happen, of my failure, is sharply in focus.

  “He changed his mind!” I shout at them. “He wasn’t going to do it.”

  The men glance at me for a second, then continue what they were doing.

  “He wasn’t going to do it.” My voice cracks.

  “Let’s go for a little ride,” says the one who cuffed me as he grabs an elbow, leading me out.

  My eyes fill with tears that quickly spill over. I try to think of something to say, something to get through to them. But Jason’s already gone, and these men don’t want to hear what I have to say. Less than five minutes ago, Jason was on the cusp of saving himself. Now no one can save him. Who called the police? Why are they here?

  I can’t swipe at the tears or my running nose, so tears and snot course down my face unchecked as I’m escorted to one of the police cars that are piled onto the grass in front of the apartment complex. The many blue and red lights flash and strobe, painting the buildings in garish colors. Several neighbors have opened their doors to see the action. Feeling utterly small and defeated, I duck into the sedan, falling to my side on the vinyl seat since I can’t catch myself. As the cruiser pulls away, I notice that the door to Jason’s apartment is wide open. I can see the police still there, going through drawers, poking into every little thing. I don’t know if they broke the door so badly it won’t close or if no one bothered to shut it after walking Jason to the police car.

  It’s not long before I’m sitting in an interrogation room, facing an image of myself in what must be a two-way mirror. I’ve seen enough television to know that everything I say is recorded and everything I do is being watched. I figure that Jason must be in another room. I hope that he’s not hurt; I know he can’t be okay.

  A friendly-looking cop comes in, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. The smell fills the room and reminds me of the newspaper’s break room. When he takes off my handcuffs, I expect that he’ll tell me I can go, but instead he walks around the table, pulls up a seat, then opens a folder and glances through it.

  He looks like someone’s dad, like a Little League coach. But as he begins talking, calmly and politely, his questions send a shiver of fear down my spine. What was I doing at Jason’s? How do I know him? How was I planning to help him? Why did I want to hurt the students at Warfield?

  The line of questioning tells me that as far as the police are concerned, I am as much involved as Jason.

  “I work at the paper; Jason’s my assistant,” I say. “I found the notebook in my office desk, and I thought if I talked to him, I could change his mind.”

  The cop has a polite look of disbelief, like I just told him about a great deal on a used car. “Oh, so Jason told you he changed his mind, that he’d given up on the whole idea?”

  “If you guys hadn’t barged in when you did,” I say, growing angry, “then he would have. He was about to say that he wasn’t going to do it, I know he was. He just didn’t have the time before you all destroyed the door and knocked us to the ground. He wasn’t going to do it.”

  I swipe at my eyes and the cop nudges a box of Kleenex toward me. I nod my thanks and grab one, blowing my nose.

  “So you know each other from school?” he asks.

  “No,” I say. “I told you, he works at the newspaper with me.” I ignore the insult that he thinks I’m still in high school. And then I realize that by now he should know that I’m not a student at Warfield. I don’t understand his obtuseness.

  “And you worked on the notebook together, like a comic strip? Is that it? Just for fun, right?”

  Again I correct him. The questions continue for over two hours. He misremembers or misunderstands what I say, asking the same questions over and over: What did I know of Jason’s plans, of his background? Did I know he hated school? Who did we buy the guns from?

  “I didn’t know he had guns.”

  My denial brings out the first flash of temper from the cop.

  “You’re a liar,” he spits. Something nasty flashes in his eyes, and I sit back in my chair, suddenly afraid.

  The door to the room opens and another cop pops his head in.

  “Frank Hale from the paper is here. Says she works for him.”

  The cop, reverting to that friendly-looking expression that I’ve grown to distrust, rises and says he’ll be right back.

  I wait alone in the room for about fifteen minutes, which is plenty of time to kick myself and hate myself for this new failure. I have time to wonder if I’ll spend the night in jail. Time to worry that maybe I do need an attorney. But before I can request my one phone call, a different cop comes in and tells me I’m free to go.

  Disoriented by the sudden release, I step out of the room into a busy hallway. Turning back, I see I was right: the mirror is two-way, and with a shiver I wonder who was standing there, watching and listening as I explained myself over and over again.

  I follow the cop or administrator or whoever he is, expecting that at any minute someone will call out to stop me. Walking down the hall, I feel like a criminal, and I’m not really sure why. The man punches a code that unlocks a set of doors and suddenly we’re back in the main station room, where Frank is waiting, looking completely out of place in his pale linen suit. I have never been so happy to see his Humpty Dumpty little shape. I run over and hug him.

  “You’ve had a rough night, poor thing,” he says, patting my back awkwardly.

  “Thank you for coming,” I say.

  “Anything for my star reporter.” I don’t like the glee in his voice.

  There are some bureaucratic steps we have to go through, and then I’m released. I don’t know what Jason’s been saying, but he isn’t coming with us.

  I walk with Frank to his boat of a Cadillac, parked crookedly, taking up two spots.

  “They searched your place,” he says. “That’s what took so long. I’ve been here for a while, but the folks at the station wanted to wait and hear if they found anything. Luckily for you, your place is clean as a whistle.”

  “I hope Mo didn’t cause a fuss when they showed up at the door,” I say.

  “Mo?”

  “My brother’s staying with me.”

  “There wasn’t anyone in the apartment. They actually thought they’d find some of Jason’s stuff there, figured he’d hole up with you a
fter the fact, assuming he didn’t shoot himself in the head like a lot of these maniacs do. But there was nothing there but your stuff. Like I said, luckily for you.”

  I’m numb. Mo’s gone? All his stuff? Maybe I’m not surprised; it just hurts to have it shoved in my face.

  As he pulls away, bumping over a sidewalk median, Frank doesn’t stop talking. “I can’t believe that little snake. After all Warfield has done for him, to plan a thing like that. But thanks to you, we’ve got us a beaut of a scoop. I expect a piece from you on this by tomorrow. We’re gonna scoop the Tennessean,” he crows, almost running into a fire hydrant in his excitement.

  We arrive at my apartment building in one piece, and I open the car door. The dome light comes on, reflecting brightly off Frank’s shiny forehead.

  “Thanks for vouching for me and getting me out of there, Frank,” I say. “I’ve had a long day. I’ll see you at the paper tomorrow.”

  “Bright and early,” he says. “This story will make your career!”

  He pulls away, swerving into the opposite lane before righting himself and sailing on. I stand outside for a moment, breathing in the damp night air.

  There’s a low cloud cover reflecting the city lights, so even though it’s nighttime, the sky is a pale, evil-looking orange. There are no stars out, no visible moon. The air is still and thick, and occasional flashes of heat lightning flicker from miles away.

  My heart flutters, beating quickly but inefficiently. I know better than to rail against God; it’s not His fault. But the injustice of what happened burns. I was so close to helping Jason, so close to fulfilling what I was tasked with.

  And Mo. I close my eyes in despair.

  What about Mo?

  XXVI.

  ONCE I’M BACK IN THE APARTMENT, I take a minute to gather my thoughts; then I call Mo’s cell phone.

  “I was beginning to worry,” he says in lieu of a greeting. “I thought maybe those stupid pigs arrested you too.”

  “They did,” I say, sitting down on the couch and closing my eyes.

  “Bet they felt like idiots once they realized who you were.”

  I ignore that, although I would say the mood at the station was one of exhilaration, the kind that comes after a job well done.

  “Mo, how could you do it? How could you bring in the police? You’d promised you’d help me.” How could you toss this boy, who considered you a friend, to the wolves?

  “Miriam,” he says, his voice rising. “It was the only thing to do. You didn’t think you could just talk him out of it, did you? He would have told you what you wanted to hear and then gone and done what he wanted to do.”

  Miserably, I shake my head. “That’s not true,” I say. “I was getting through to him. And besides, we agreed we’d convince him not to do anything. He’s in jail now, do you not understand that?”

  He laughs hollowly. “Miriam, he’s not stupid. He knew exactly the right response to give you. I promise you he’d have brought the guns to school tomorrow. You’re naïve if you think anything else. Look at it this way: If I’m right and he wasn’t stopped and then he killed some students, you fail, and God smites you. If you’re right, you still saved the students, Jason isn’t a murderer and God doesn’t have any reason to hurt you. Besides,” he says in a singsong voice that pisses me off, “won’t the Almighty know whether or not Jason had a change of heart?”

  “I was supposed to save him. Now his life is ruined.”

  “Look, who did most of the talking, you or him?” he challenges. “I bet you a hundred bucks you talked and talked and he nodded and pretended to agree. What else did you think he would do?” I ignore the accuracy of that.

  “You helped him get those guns, didn’t you?” I accuse, refusing to let him worm away from his part in this. “Then you leaked it to the police. He didn’t stand a chance, you made sure of that. You better expect a knock on your door once the police realize it’s your handwriting.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” he says smugly. “Jason’s not going to rat on me. The boy worships me. As he should.”

  Mo has always been a little arrogant and callous, but I don’t know who this manipulative, heartless person is. “Mo, what is wrong with you?”

  “Miriam,” he says slowly, as if speaking to a drunk or a young child. “You wanted to stop a school shooting. That’s what I said I’d help you with, and that’s what I did.” I fight the persuasion in his too sincere voice. He doesn’t dispute helping Jason procure the weapons. “The only way to know for sure that he wouldn’t go through with it was to put him away. I wasn’t planning the party alone. Jason was a willing and happy conspirator, except he would have actually pulled the trigger, the crazy fuck, and I wouldn’t.”

  When I don’t respond, I can practically hear Mo shrug. “You’ve had a long day,” he says. “You should go to bed. After a good night’s sleep, you’ll see I’m right. You told me yourself even your tattooed boyfriend agreed that getting the police involved was the only way.”

  I sniff.

  “He’s not getting executed,” Mo says sharply. “He’ll go to juvie for a couple of years, where, frankly, he’ll probably be happier than at freaking Warfield. He’ll get out and go to community college, records sealed, and fulfill his ‘wonderful’ potential that you’re so freaking obsessed with.”

  He’s wrong, of course. But I don’t have the energy to argue.

  A part of me realizes this is the compromise Mo made to keep himself safe. No shooting, but at least one life irreparably ruined. I can’t really muster anger. I’m too drained. So I make peace with Mo. Then I make my way to bed.

  I tell myself, over and over again, that Mo meant well. That this was his way of helping. Maybe that counts as much as anything else. I got him to care, to stop heartbreaking violence. Certainly my vision of Judge Bender sentencing Jason to five consecutive life sentences won’t come to pass. No matter how stiff his punishment, he won’t get that kind of sentence for a foiled plot. In the end, the shooting was stopped. No matter what, I have to remember to take comfort in that. Maybe having Mo love me and help me, even in a way that I didn’t want—maybe that counts for something. A white mark on his soul. Maybe he’ll think twice the next time the devil comes around. I don’t know how to weigh the good and the bad in this case. I don’t know how God will judge us.

  You would think, with all this banging around in my head, that I would lose another night’s sleep. You would think I’d worry about Jason spending the night in jail, or wonder where Mo went in such a hurry. But to my surprise, I soon fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  When I open my eyes again, it’s morning.

  The newsroom is in an uproar. As soon as I enter, before I even boot up my computer, Frank’s at my side with a gleam in his eye.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says.

  I cringe at his choice of words. “You really shouldn’t say that.”

  “I finally figured it out, you know.”

  “What?”

  “ ‘Sick days’?” He makes air quotes. “ ‘Dr. Messa’?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You could have told me you were going undercover. We might be a small paper, but we are a newspaper and I would have supported you. No one would have known.”

  “You think I did this for a story?” I ask, astonished.

  Frank rubs his hands in delight, ignoring me completely.

  “I never thought you had it in you. You are a true journalist.” I know this must be high praise in Frank’s book, but to me it sounds a little hollow. “I want your feature on this as soon as possible, two thousand words minimum. We’re going to spank the Tennessean! I’ll need your piece on my desk by this afternoon. Get to work,” he says; then, muttering to himself something about a special edition, he hustles off like a busy mallard duck.

  With a dejected sigh, I turn to the blank screen and begin telling Jason’s story. It isn’t going to be what anyone wants to read, but it’s the least I can do for him. Over th
e course of the day, several of my co-workers come over to congratulate me. But when they sense my mood, they cluck their tongues at the sad state of the world and then drift off again. Alex glares at me from across the room. I can’t imagine why he’s pissed off, unless he somehow thinks I’ve upstaged him as “star reporter,” but frankly I can’t spare the emotion to even feel wronged.

  I write:

  Jason was not a people person. An adolescence of not fitting in had taken its toll on his soul. When I first met him, I thought he was an obnoxious brat, and he sensed that, the same way he sensed every time that people judged him. So he gave everyone what they expected, and he sank deeper into a morass of despair.

  I break the cardinal rule of journalism and use the first person. A reporter is supposed to come across as completely impartial, reporting facts, not opinions, and giving analysis without taking sides. That’s ridiculous, of course: humans are incapable of completely filtering out their own impressions when they analyze facts. This time, for this story, I don’t even try.

  But he wasn’t without merit and he wasn’t lacking in gifts. Jason’s talent for sketching, for capturing the essences of expressions, the nuances of posture, is remarkable for an untrained teenager. If this were a Hollywood story, then, after his years of misery, a successful artist would come across Jason’s sketches and whisk him away to New York, where Jason would be accepted into a prestigious art school and be showered with accolades, fame and success. But this isn’t Hollywood, and that’s not how Jason’s story goes.

  By the end of the day, I’ve finished the piece. I e-mail it to Frank and then shut down my computer.