“I can take care of myself,” she muttered.
Her parents glanced at one another, her mother’s face taut. She shook her head slightly as though to say, Leave it. Sighing, her father lifted his coffee to his lips. The world news began, and he unmuted the television.
“Today, the Kremlin announced that the aged Soviet president Konstantin Chernenko has died,” the anchor began.
Janis’s father turned up the volume. Margaret twisted to face their console television, both hands on her backrest.
“The long ailing Chernenko is reported to have succumbed to emphysema and other health-related problems. His successor is Mikhail Gorbachev, the youngest member of the ruling Politburo, marking a new generation of leadership. In his acceptance speech today, Gorbachev said that the Soviet Union wants a ‘major reduction of the arms stockpiles.’ He went on to say that he would welcome peace accords with the U.S. based on respect and cooperation. From Washington, President Reagan sent a message of condolence to the Soviets, reiterating his strong desire for world peace. Though speaking in cautious tones, many in the administration expressed hope that, with the transition, serious arms-control talks can begin…”
“Oh, my god.” Janis’s mother brought her hands to her mouth. She made a sound like a chuckle, but when Janis looked over, she found tears sliding down both sides of her face.
“Mom?” Janis looked from her to her father and back.
Her mother sniffled and touched the back of her wrist to one eye, then fell into her open hands, sobbing.
“What’s wrong?” Janis asked, cold dread swimming up from her gut. Was this where she would announce her break from their father? Was this where she’d utter the dreaded ‘D’ word?
Her father scooted over and wrapped his arms around their mother’s quaking shoulders. But she didn’t shrink from him. Instead, she grasped his hand, moisture shining along her gold wedding band. “I know,” he whispered, leaning his head against hers.
The sight almost made Janis forget about Mr. Leonard. It was the most affectionate she had seen her parents in, like, ever.
“Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” Janis looked over at Margaret, who shrugged with her face. Her sister reached over and set a tentative hand on her mother’s back.
“Your mother’s just a little overcome,” their father said, “as we all should be.”
“Why?” Janis asked.
Their father moved his gaze to the television, which broadcast an image of the Soviet Union’s new leader, a robust but pleasant-faced man with a wine-colored mark on his forehead. “This Mikhail Gorbachev is a moderate politician, maybe even a reformer,” he said. “There’s a good chance we’re witnessing the beginning of the end of the Cold War.”
Her mother’s sobs became laughter.
* * *
Janis sighed and slapped her Spanish book closed. How in the world could she memorize the thousand-odd differences between por and para after everything that had happened that day? She had a quiz the next day, but big whoop. At worst, she’d just choose one of the words, maybe para, and stick with it for every question. Couldn’t do much worse than fifty percent, right?
Can’t believe you’re stressing over grades at a time like this.
She lifted her gaze to the curtained window. Mr. Leonard was out there, alive and sleeping in her woods.
Should I be afraid?
She hadn’t imagined his sincerity. He had put himself at her mercy. If she’d run for help, he’d be sitting in a cell right now — or dead, if he was to be believed. She chewed on the end of her eraser with her lips. Could he be believed? Everything he had told her, even the stabbing, followed a sort of twisted logic. She hadn’t been able to play soccer or softball due to the injury, and if that day’s tryouts were any indication, her powers would have become more and more apparent. She would have been positioning herself and her fellow outfielders for balls before the batter even swung. Someone would have caught on eventually.
But who?
She pushed herself from her desk and paced the room.
Agent Steel?
Janis had seen her less and less in recent weeks. Even the strange men at school seemed to have disappeared, their investigation wrapping up, Janis could only hope. But Agent Steel continued to play a starring role in her nightmares — stooping over her, driving the ceramic shard deeper into her side, demanding to know who was with her in the Leonards’ house. Then her cold voice would announce, “We already know. We found him.” And Scott’s body would land in front of her, his glasses shattered and blood specked.
Who is she? Who’s she connected to?
Janis jumped at the sound of knocking on her door. Her father’s visored face appeared in the doorway.
“There’s a call for you,” he said.
“Oh.” Janis remembered she’d turned the ringer off on her phone to study. “Who is it?”
“The boy from up the street. Scott.” A single, solid thump from Janis’s heart froze her arm, midreach.
“Should I tell him you’re studying?”
“No, no. I’ll take it.”
Her father retreated down the hallway. She lifted the receiver to her ear, eyes wide. “I’ve got it,” she said into the mouthpiece. Her father hung up. She waited another second, listening to Scott’s breaths on the other end. They were coming almost as quickly as her own.
“Janis?” His voice sounded strange.
“Yes?” Why in the world’s he calling? We’re still being listened to, right?
“Look, I, ah, I know it’s probably kind of strange, me calling. I mean, we haven’t talked much since the fifth grade.” An awkward laugh. “Don’t worry, I promise not to do my Gonzo impersonation.”
Janis laughed shyly, the way she imaged she might have laughed had they really not spoken in more than three years. “Good,” she said. Brilliant, actually. But where is this going, Scott?
“Anyway,” he continued. “There’s the spring dance on Friday and I was… Well first, is, um… is anyone taking you?”
Blake would have been taking her, if they were still together. For the first time, Janis wondered if Blake would be going with someone else. A pang of jealousy bloomed in her solar plexus.
“No,” she said. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t even planning on going.”
“Oh.”
A silence followed during which Janis was convinced he was going to wish her goodnight and hang up. Please keep going. You’re doing great, Scott. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this, but we’re almost there. She twisted the phone cord until it coiled the entire length of her finger.
“Well, would you like to go?” he asked at last. “I mean, would you like to go with me?”
“All right. Yeah, sure.” Did I answer too quickly?
Through the line, she heard the clatter of what sounded like a chair toppling. “Scott? Are you still there?”
His voice came back on with a gasp. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just knocked over a book. The dance starts at seven. I’d offer you a ride, but I’m not sure there’s room on my bike seat.” That awkward laugh again that sounded entirely convincing. “How about we meet there, in the gymnasium?”
“Seven?” she asked.
“Right, seven sharp.”
“I’ll be there. And, um, thanks for asking me.”
She replaced the receiver and sat still, eyes closed, hoping that to whoever was listening, her performance had been as convincing as Scott’s. It had felt real, anyway. Too real. Because with her heartbeats still echoing in her ears, Janis wasn’t sure what excited her more: the chance to talk to Scott, finally, or the idea that they were going to a dance together.
Either way, she was going to need a dress.
21
Bast household
Friday, March 15, 1985
7:00 p.m.
Tyler awoke with a gasp in a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets, and for a moment he thought he was outside, his father looking up at him. He crawled
his hands out until he felt the bed frame. His fingers clung to the wood as he fought to straighten his thoughts.
Where’s the light?
His hospital room had always been aglow, if not from his own side, then from his neighbor’s — and if not from his neighbor’s, then from the window that looked out onto the nurses’ station.
Home, man, you’re home. You got out last week, remember?
He nodded. Yeah, yeah, he remembered now. His sharpening thoughts drew the dimensions of his bedroom around him again. It had been happening a lot lately, waking up with no idea where he was, scared out of his mind. He was still downing some heavy-duty painkillers, which probably had something to do with it.
His bedroom spun around him as he sat up on the edge of the bed. He held the sides of his head.
“Shit,” he moaned.
The word described how he felt, but it also summed up what he remembered of the accident — a flash of lights, shattering glass, then cut to a hospital bed and a doctor telling him how lucky he was to be alive. The Chevelle had been creamed, apparently, and everyone inside nearly so. Jesse had suffered a broken collarbone; Creed, a pelvis cracked in two places and a partially crushed vertebrae — no spinal damage, the lucky bastard — and himself, a concussion so severe his brain had swelled. The concussion had kept him in the hospital after the other two had been discharged. “For observation,” the white coats kept telling him. He had slept for most of those two weeks.
Sitting on the side of his bed, his mind felt like a colossal smear. He could hardly link his thoughts together until he’d been awake for an hour or more. Could hardly talk without his head hurting. Even his vision spotted over sometimes. “All of that will improve before long,” the white coats told him. “Brain needs time to heal. Going to have to quit the smokes for a while.”
No problem there. The thought of a cigarette made his chest ache.
The only thing the accident and pain meds hadn’t touched, it seemed, were his dreams. If anything, they’d become more lucid, more real — especially the bad ones. And the one bad dream whose reality he could least afford to contemplate was the one that recurred the most. It was the dream he’d just awoken from in a sweat. The dream about What Happened.
* * *
Maybe his father’s screams had broken the spell. Or the fire alarm. Or the fire itself, hot against his face. Or perhaps the electricity that had built up in Tyler’s twelve-year-old body had simply spent itself.
Tyler’s fingers popped from his father’s wrist. He fell back, his head thudding on the bottom step of the staircase. He lay there, jaw throbbing, every muscle burned out from contracting long after the point of exhaustion. When he tried to push himself up, his arms collapsed — nothing to support him. He stared at the crescents of his fingernails, realizing they were filled with blood.
His father continued to scream.
Tyler turned his head enough to find him thrashing against the walls, struggling to tear the flaming shirt from his body. Only, the flames had scaled his thick sideburns to his head while burning plastic from the shirt’s liner dripped down his jeans in fluttering streaks.
Tyler squeezed his eyes shut but found the afterimage of his father’s face, awash in orange and white, burned there. Something crashed, and his father’s screams fell to gurgles. Then they stopped.
The fire alarm continued to bleat.
Tyler opened his eyes to a room filled with foul, drifting smoke. Small pools of fire burned here and there like elements in a satanic ritual. He glanced up the stairs and saw the shadow of his mother’s legs, right where he had left her. In the living room, the large lamp had been knocked to the floor and now cast an eerie glow like a grave keeper’s lantern. From behind the couch, another pair of legs jutted out, black and smoking.
Dad…?
Tyler’s chest heaved, and watery vomit gushed onto the floor beside him. He managed to choke back a second wave.
He pulled off his shirt and knotted the sleeves together behind his head so the shirt’s body hugged his nose and fell over his mouth. His muscles protested but were working again. He stood on rubbery legs. Without looking toward the couch, he stumbled to each window, stamping out small carpet fires as he went. He thumbed the metal locks open and lifted. Cold air rushed in.
Then the sound of an approaching car engine.
Tyler threw his back against a wall. His brother couldn’t see, couldn’t know. Tyler would never be able to explain that it had just happened, that it wasn’t his fault. His brother and father had… something. A bond, he supposed. Creed swore beneath his father’s blows, sure, swore all the things he’d do when he was old enough. But then Creed went out and acted just like him. Mouthing off, starting fights, drinking, eventually — he’d even started to strut like him. But where their father was physically solid, Creed was lanky. It was as though his brother was trying to draw strength from his only real model for it, as effed up as it was. Tyler guessed it was also why he hung around with Jesse Hoag.
Tyler listened to the approaching car, wondering whether he should run up to his room and pretend that he’d been sleeping the whole time, that he was just as confused as anyone.
You committed murder.
The car turned down the street and faded into the night sounds.
You committed murder, and now you have to bury the evidence.
Tyler turned to the couch, the back of which was pluming black smoke. Another wave of nausea hit him, and he crouched and lifted the shirt from his mouth. The wave passed.
A neighbor’s gonna want to know why the alarm’s going off. Get him outside, damn it. Now.
Tyler staggered through the kitchen, kicked a path through the garage, and opened the cobweb-sealed door that led behind the house. He scanned the yard. A patch along the back fence, beneath the azaleas, looked darkest. On his way back through the garage, Tyler stopped to pull on a pair of his father’s work gloves. They swam on his shaking hands, the material damp and leathery smelling. He spotted a shovel leaning against the workbench.
He would need that too, eventually.
Tyler inhaled a lungful of clean air. He’d always been a good underwater swimmer. He’d once held his breath for two minutes at the quarry pond before Creed yanked him up, worried his idiot brother was drowning. Now, cheeks puffed, he waded through the smoke to the living room.
His father had fallen facedown. Tyler stared at an inhuman black scalp glistening red in places. The living room wavered. Tyler felt his knees buckle, but he caught himself against the couch.
He squeezed his eyes closed.
It’s not your dad. It’s a body. Just a body. If you’re going to get through this, that’s how you have to think about it.
Just a body.
Tyler opened his eyes and stepped inside the plume of smoke. He straddled the body, his black-checked Vans at rib level, toes pointing toward the head. Then he gripped beneath the armpits, heat pushing against his work gloves, and lifted. The body came up with the sensation of a bandage being pulled from scabbing skin. The melted jacket had begun to fuse with the nap of the carpet. But Tyler couldn’t think about that. His back bent nearly ninety degrees, eyes locked on the kitchen, he took his first step. The body resisted, then jerked forward beneath him. Tyler grunted and shuffled his other foot. This time, the body slid more readily. By the tenth step, he and the body were clear of the couch, and their movement had fallen into a steady, waddling rhythm.
Slick linoleum sped their passage through the kitchen. At the rear of the kitchen, Tyler stuck his head into the garage and pulled in another lungful of air, the heart-pumping exertion replacing the heart-pounding horror of only moments before. A strange rationality began to take over, as though he was just doing a job. Hauling a sack of junk to the backyard — something his father might have had him do on a weekend morning or a lazy summer day.
Tyler scooted the stiffening body down the small step into the garage. Like the linoleum in the kitchen, the oil-stained cement smoothed
their passage. The toes of the body’s engineer boots caught and skipped behind them. Outside, a cold wind brushed around Tyler’s bruising torso. He parked the body against the house and lay an old car cover over it, weighing the moldy fabric down with bricks. Tyler pulled his shirt from his face.
Not done yet.
Back in the living room, he set up a floor fan to blow lingering smoke from the house. He aimed a second fan at the bleating smoke alarm until it went mute.
Tyler peeked through the red, flapping drapes out at the street, which was blessedly still. He picked up the lamp, replaced the shade, set old newspapers back on the coffee table, and spread the afghan over the back of the couch. He studied the floor around his feet. The smaller burn marks blended with the existing wear and tear of the brown carpet, he decided.
What about behind the couch?
Choking, Tyler willed himself back to the scene of the crime. The blackened spot looked as incriminating as a chalk outline without the arms. Threads of smoke spiraled from the melted napping. Tyler grabbed a bottle of Dawn from the kitchen sink and hosed the length of the burn mark. In the downstairs bathroom, he balled up a bath towel and soaked it beneath the cold tap. He carried the dripping towel back to the living room and started scrubbing.
Black scabs of carpet came up, and soon the large spot frothed with foam. Tyler scrubbed a path to the kitchen, following the journey of the body — over the linoleum, down the step, and through the garage. He threw the blackened towel beside the mound beneath the car cover and returned to the living room, where he performed a rinse cycle with a second and then a third soaked towel.
By the time Tyler returned to the living room, the haze had thinned to the point that he couldn’t tell whether he was just imagining it. He seized one end of the couch and scooted it back two feet. He did the same at the other end, checking to see that the man-sized burn mark was hidden. Then he arranged the end and coffee tables to fit. The dimensions were all wrong — the space between couch and television too long — but maybe his mother wouldn’t notice when she came downstairs in the morning. Better yet, he would tell her that his father rearranged things. That was the way he wanted it now, goddammit. She wouldn’t argue. But his father would never say that, or anything like it, again. Tyler’s lips trembled around a whimper, the bolts of his nervous system shaking loose.
XGeneration, Books 1-3: You Don't Know Me, The Watchers, and Silent Generation Page 47
