Forgive Me, Alex

by Lane Diamond

  The blackness was coming for me.

  "Tony! Listen to me! Look at me!"

  I could barely see Dr. Singer. She leaned over and cupped my face in her hands. She smelled of mint and flowers. And death.

  "You have to listen to me, Tony. This is important. Okay?"

  Air. I need air.

  "It's still preliminary," she said, "but there are some things I can tell you with absolute certainty. Alex died when a sharp object, probably a knife, punctured his heart. You must understand that death was instantaneous."

  She snapped her fingers to provide effect.

  "The mutilations were inflicted postmortem," she said, "after death. We know that by the way the blood clots. Whatever sick reason the killer had for performing those mutilations, Alex felt none of it. He was already gone."

  She paused and watched me, waiting for a response, no doubt, or some indication that I'd heard her. I fought to regain my composure, and to let my breathing settle closer to a normal rate. The shaking diminished, but I still couldn't speak. I could only stare at her.

  "It's true," she said. "As bad as it seems, it was completely painless. It had to be, because he would have died instantly."

  I wiped the tears from my face, and took several deep breaths to regain control. A minute later, or two minutes, or a week, I pushed against the floor, and the chief helped me up.

  Dr. Singer walked back to the table and began to pull the sheet over Alex.

  "Please wait." I said it barely loud enough for anyone to hear. "I'm okay. Please, let me see Alex's face—just his face—one last time."

  The doctor looked to the chief.

  He peered into my eyes before turning to the doctor and nodding, and then produced a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me.

  I used it to wipe my eyes and blow my nose. "Thanks." I offered it back.

  He shook his head and flicked his hand as if to say, you keep that, and said, "You sure you're okay?"

  "Yeah, I think so." I shuffled to the table and looked down at Alex.

  My heart weighed a thousand pounds, and my eyes pooled with fresh tears. My throat almost closed again as I whispered, "I love you, Hoopster."

  I reached out and placed my hand on Alex's left cheek. You're so cold. I wanted to rub his cheeks, to make my baby brother warmer.

  "I've always loved you, and I always will. I know you're in the best place now. Say 'Hi' to Mom for me, okay?"

  I bowed my head and allowed the tears to flow freely, and stuttered the last words I would ever speak to the most important person in my life.

  "You... always were... a goo— a good boy."

  I turned and stalked toward the door without raising my head, determined to forever etch in my mind the memory of Alex's warm love—not his cold cheek.

  ***

  Across the hall in the men's room, I stood at one of the sinks and turned on the water. I looked in the mirror, seeing only Alex on that ice-cold table, and ran for one of the stalls.

  I emptied my stomach—once, twice, three times—and wiped the sweat from my face again. After spitting a dozen times in hopes of getting the foul taste out of my mouth, I flushed the toilet and left the stall.

  I slunk back to the sink, where the water was still running, and cupped my hands to rinse my mouth a few times. I splashed water on my face and hair, and glanced at the mirror as I leaned on the sink. I couldn't face myself, so I stared down at the water swirling down the drain, and drifted into a fog.

  After some unknown seconds or minutes, I splashed more water on my face, then stood up and looked to my left for a towel. Nothing. I looked to my right, and there stood an observer, just inside the door.

  "How long have you been standing there?"

  "Long enough." Chief Radlon walked forward, snagged a couple paper towels out of a dispenser along the way, and handed them to me.

  "Thanks. I'm sorry about losing it in there. And in here. I think I've managed to get myself together."

  "You have nothing to apologize for. Take whatever time you need."

  I managed a weak smile, and wiped the towels over my face and hands.

  "You know," he said, "I thought you might actually have been involved in Alex's death, somehow. It was hard to imagine, but family members are the first likely suspects for a reason. Long history."

  I shook my head and sighed. "I wondered about that. The way you looked at me earlier, while we were waiting for the elevator, and yesterday at the house too. I thought you looked kind of... strange. Suspicious."

  "Well, after what I saw across the hall, and in here, I'm not suspicious anymore."

  I didn't know how to respond.

  "I mean, let's face it, nobody's that good an actor." He smiled.

  I actually chuckled, as if a hundred pounds had rolled off my shoulders. "No, I guess not."

  He patted me on the back and said, "Do you need more time?"

  "No, it's okay. I'm ready to go." I pitched the wet towels into the trash. "We still have a lot to do over the next couple days but, geez! I have no idea where to begin."

  "I'm sure your dad will know what to do."

  Dad? Really? I don't know. Maybe.

  The chief must have read my emotions. He appeared concerned, even angry. "And if you need any help at all, I'll be happy to do what I can for you. Don't hesitate to ask. Not for one second!"

  He placed his hand on my shoulder, and kept it there for the entire walk back to the car. I felt suddenly smaller, crushed by the whole experience, but the chief's hand comforted me. It felt safe. Strong. Certain.

  We exchanged awkward smiles, but said nothing more as we got in the police cruiser and pulled out of the county complex.

  Chapter 24 – May 22, 1978: Tony Hooper

  I struggled to recapture my composure as we rode home from the morgue.

  The chief let me.

  When we arrived, Dad was sitting in a lawn chair at the back end of the driveway. He held a glass in one hand, a bottle of Jack Daniel's in the other. We got out of the car and I stared at him for a minute.

  "Tony, why don't you go inside the house? I need to talk to your father."

  "Listen, Chief, I appreciate—"

  "Just go in the house, Tony. Please."

  Despite his soft voice, I knew better than to argue with him. Besides, he might succeed where I would probably have failed. I nodded and started for the door without looking at Dad.

  "What's the matter, Son, you don't want to talk to the old man?" He practically laughed, and added in a quiet slur, "Hell, I can't say I blame you. I wouldn't want to talk to me either."

  I jogged on and entered the house. Once through the door, I stepped to the side, out of sight but still able to hear what they said.

  The chief sighed and in a dry, sharp voice, said, "Mr. Hooper."

  "Howdy, Chief Radlon. Hell, we're practically friends now. Forget that mister stuff and call me Hank."

  "I'm not your friend, Hank. I might be, if you could manage to set aside your self-pity and stop being an asshole for a few minutes."

  I couldn't help it; I had to peek around the edge to see what was happening. I remained quiet. Dad stared at the chief as emotions flashed across his face—confusion, self-pity, embarrassment, rage.

  "Why you lousy, self-righteous sonuvabitch! What do you know about it, huh? Have you lost a wife? Have you lost a child? Well, have you, goddamn it?"

  "There's no denying that you've had a tough time of it. So has Tony." He maintained his even tone. "Guess you've been too busy to notice."

  The accusation stung my dad. He looked at the chief through those terribly bloodshot eyes, but he could muster no response.

  "Your son did something today that no boy should have to do, at least no boy who has a father. That was your task. You should have been there."

  Dad took another drink and stared at his feet.

  The chief waited.

  "Not being there is my way," Dad said. "I wasn't there, not really there, for the boy
s after my wife died. I didn't know how. Hell, Tony was more of a father to Alex. Then I wasn't there when the killer took Alex. I should have been there. He'd still be alive."

  He drained his glass and almost fell out of the chair.

  "Now what? I'll finally be there for Tony?" He laughed—a choking sound that dripped with disgust and self-loathing. "What can I tell you, Chief? When it comes to being a father, I pretty much suck."

  He raised the bottle to pour another drink, and fell out of the chair.

  The chief leaned over and placed a hand on Dad's neck. "Passed out. Shit."

  Chapter 25 – June 7, 1995: Tony Hooper

  I stare at my wine glass, relieved that the story of those terrible days in 1978 is over. The third bottle of wine is now empty. Like my heart.

  Perhaps I needed to tell it at last, but the long story, filled with so much grief and sorrow, such powerful guilt, has rendered me limp. I can barely keep myself together. I have no energy left. My emotions have poured out.

  Mostly.

  I turn up my glass and chug the last several ounces of Cabernet, all the while struggling to slow my heart and fighting against the deluge.

  Linda watches me, and the sadness I see—the caring, the tenderness, the moisture in her eyes—is the final straw. I lay my head on her shoulder and she places her arm around me.

  I can do nothing more. I need a release.

  For the third time in twenty years, I cry.

  Alex, can you ever forgive me?

  PART 5 – Out of the Ashes

  Chapter 26 – May 27, 1978: Frank Willow

  "Loneliness comes in two basic varieties. When it results from a desire for solitude, loneliness is a door we close against the world. When the world instead rejects us, loneliness is an open door, unused." – Dean Koontz, Forever Odd

  ~~~~~

  The sun rested on my old bones like the heating pad I kept near my La-Z-Boy, a welcome thing at my age. The sky sparkled in a hollow, pale blue—something between off-white and transparent—and the world exploded into green everywhere. Winter had drifted away, only a bad memory now, and good riddance. My garden, my living, breathing kaleidoscope, burst in color and sprayed a live perfume to please the senses.

  Such a glorious day might have soothed the soul, had it not been one of the worst of all possible days. Distress ripped at my soul, and snatched my breath as though I'd taken a hard punch to the chest.

  Today we'd lain to rest my grandson, Alex.

  Though not related, I'd considered the Hooper boys my grandsons for many years. They'd brought joy and light to an old man, enlivened my solitary life. Now only Tony remained, a boy for whom I'd have done anything and given everything. Few things in life devastated so profoundly as a child's death, an event properly reserved for old farts like me. The world had stood before him, bracing for his bright future.

  Alas, his light no longer shined.

  Everything had flipped upside down. Alex should someday have stood over my grave and celebrated my life. The world would have made more sense if only I could have traded places with him, and I'd have been content to do so.

  I tried never to be angry with God. On that unholy day... well, I had to try harder.

  I'd attended the funeral, a fit and proper event filled with black suits, black dresses and red eyes, to say goodbye to the beloved Alex. I'd also provided a shoulder for Hank Hooper to lean on. He'd needed it.

  Tony had embraced his girlfriend, the lovely young Diana, for moral support.

  No real surprise; he'd handled the whole thing much better than his father had. Tony was strong. Hank was weak. That was just about the nut of it.

  Hank had drifted throughout the ceremony, lost and unsure what he should say or do. Tony had stared at the ground with the slightest hint of a smile, as though voyaging through the memories of his many special experiences with Alex—exactly how his little brother would have liked it. That Alex was a real smart one, for a boy his age, oozing empathy to which most of us could only aspire.

  Many people had gathered afterwards at the Hooper place, and I made an appearance for a short time. Some of Tony's relatives had been there, people he rarely saw and didn't much care for. Some of those folks gave me the willies. Their wooden smiles and plastic words said one thing, but their eyes said something entirely different. Phonies! I understood why Tony felt as he did, why he'd avoided them all day and had spent his time with me or with Diana and some neighborhood kids.

  I'd escaped with little fanfare and without saying anything. No one would miss me. They had plenty else to worry about.

  Now seated on my patio with a fine cognac in hand, I enjoyed my garden and the perfect weather. I wasn't a real big drinker, but it was okay on a day like today. I'd probably have a second. Maybe a third. I could sure as hell use it.

  I flinched when the squeaky gate of mine yelled out. I needed to oil those hinges. The arrival of my visitor didn't surprise me, though he arrived sooner than I'd anticipated.

  Tony plunked down in the chair next to me and looked at the garden without saying a word. I swayed gently in my rocker and took another sip of cognac, happy to oblige his desire for quiet.

  After a couple minutes of silent reverie, he looked over and examined my drink. "I don't suppose you have another one of those?"

  I thought about it for a minute. He was only eighteen but, what the hell—at eighteen, already in the army, I'd been drinking for two years.

  "Given the circumstances," I said, "I think you're entitled. Sit tight."

  A few minutes later, I returned with another snifter and a nearly full bottle of Courvoisier VSOP cognac.

  I poured him a perfect two fingers. "Here you go. This is fine liquor, so no ice."

  "Thanks, that sounds good."

  He downed most of it in one huge gulp, and twisted his face into contortions as though I'd forced him to eat dog poop.

  He stuttered through his coughing, "Wow! That's... pretty... strong stuff."

  "You get used to it. It's a smooth cognac, a gentleman's drink—for sipping, not gulping. Take it a little slower."

  "I'd say that advice is a few seconds late."

  We chuckled, settled back and rocked for several minutes, me in a gentle, grandfatherly rhythm, him as though in the race of his life. His blank expression, as he stared at the garden, occasionally retreated under a palpable sadness. It broke my heart all over again, but I pushed it away.

  He needed me to be strong for him, to stand in where his dad failed.

  He took a deep breath and continued. "I don't know why exactly, but I expected it to be storming like crazy—something biblical, real Wrath of God stuff. It would have been more appropriate."

  "Ah, nonsense! A boy like Alex deserves a bright and joyful day. He'd have wanted it this way, and it's how I'll always remember him. A day like today makes that easier, sort of finishes the point."

  He took a deep breath, clearly trying to fight back the tears, and exhaled in a heavy sigh. "I suppose that's one way to look at it. Everybody at the house sure seems to be in a good mood. All those damned relatives laughing and reminiscing, as though it's a fucking family reunion or something, as though they gave a shit about Alex! Everybody kept coming up to me and hugging me and saying shit like, 'Oh, poor Tony, I'm so, so sorry.'"

  He shook his head and nearly spit, "Aaaaah! I had to get out of there before I punched one of them in the goddamned face."

  What could I say to calm him? Best let him vent, though it was unlike the boy to throw around so much profanity. He was usually so polite, but I understood. We all had our limits.

  "Diana and her parents left. Then my friends took off. Man! After that, there was nobody there I wanted to be around."

  I knew all too well that he included his father in that sentiment.

  He waved his hands in gesture over his formal suit. "So here I am, still in this get-up, drinking cognac. Frankly, I'd prefer a beer."

  "You know where the fridge is, and your legs aren't br
oken."

  When he went inside, I couldn't help but wonder how he'd recover from this. He'd suffered so much loss for a boy his age. He'd lost his mother three years ago, and now he'd lost the boy who'd meant more to him than anyone in the world. A person my age expected a significant amount of loss, accrued over a long life, but a boy his age shouldn't have experienced such things. He'd gotten too much of a head start on life's miserable, more painful experiences.

  He would graduate from high school soon, and he'd head off to college in the fall. In the meantime, I feared the impending summer would be most difficult for him.

  If only I could have helped him somehow.

  Chapter 27 – May 27, 1978: Mitchell Norton

  "Men must have corrupted nature a little, for they were not born wolves, and they have become wolves." – Voltaire

  ~~~~~

  The newspaper story said his name was Alex Scott Hooper—ASH in Tommy's name game. That was damn funny—ASH to ashes. The article listed his father as Henry Allen Hooper—HAH. Fuckin' hilarious! His brother, my nemesis, was Anthony Stephen Hooper—ASH as well. Interesting. His mother had been deceased for three years.

  "Aw, aren't they a poor, sad family?"

  The Reaper didn't answer. He might still have been pissed at me.

  Bloodstains lingered on the workbench and on the floor of the shed, in my new work place, home of my second and much more exciting job. I performed my new duties here, though I had a shitload to learn.

  I'd sent ASH to ashes, all right, but the demon had screamed in fury and frustration because I'd fucked it up so badly. I was supposed to torture the boy. He was to perish only after the pain had become too terrible to endure. Instead, the little shit had died instantly—a complete fuck-up on my part.