Prodigal Blues

by Gary A Braunbeck

  This time I grabbed a long bone and moved toward him, striking him against the side of the head, but still he kept talking.

  "…could not forgive himself for losing you, Christopher—"

  —another blow to the side of his head—

  —"…and so he kept on drinking, drinking, drinking, until he finally drove Paul away, remember? Paul"—

  —this time I hit him in the throat, which caught him off-guard and made him spit up a little, but then he took a breath at was at it all over again—

  —"…so little brother joined the Army just in time for the first Gulf War, and once over there, promptly got himself blown up when a terrorist drove a truck filled with explosives right into his barracks"—

  —I kept striking at his face with the bone, screaming incomprehensibly to drown out his voice—

  —"…he burned to death in the fire, remember how we talked about what it is like to burn to death, how the brain is the last thing to go so you feel every last sensation of your body being consumed? You could not believe how horrible it"—

  —back and forth Christopher rocked, weeping and shaking—

  —again and again I struck Grendel with the bone, screaming until my throat was torn-raw and wet—

  —and still Grendel kept talking louder and louder until his screams equaled my own—

  —"…and losing both his sons was too much for John Robert Matthews to bear, so he began drinking twice, thrice as much, remember? Remember, Christopher? And all the while, your saintly mother tried to hold what was left of her family together but your father, he was so obsessed with his guilt he paid her no mind, at least, until the night he came home so drunk he could not see the road in front of him, let alone YOUR MOTHER STANDING OUTSIDE WAITING FOR HIM, AND WHEN HE REALIZED THAT HE HAD KILLED HER, WHEN HE REALIZED—"

  —"…good cook," whimpered Christopher, "Mom's always been a real good cook…"—

  —"…THAT HIS FAMILY WAS GONE—"

  —"Shut your filthy fucking mouth you worthless pile-of-puke-piece-of-shit!" I screamed, hammering the bone against the top of his skull, spattering blood and tissue—

  —"…HE TOOK HIS OLD SHOTGUN AND—"

  —"…thought it was ours," said Christopher, "...it looked gray, I swear to God it looked gray…"—

  —I threw down the bone and grabbed Grendel's throat with both my hands and began squeezing with everything I had, slamming his head back against the wall and driving my knee into his groin as he clawed at my face with his free hand, drawing a little blood, and I jerked forward, headbutting him, and he spit blood into my eyes but I kept squeezing until his hand fell to his side and his mouth began to bubble spit and blood and these little ragged wheezing noises began to escape and I liked it, I liked it, God forgive me I liked the feeling of his life slipping out under my hands, but then Christopher grabbed me from behind and pulled me off, both of us falling back onto the duffel bag which quickly spilled half its contents under our weight and we lay there on a bed of bones both of us shaking and crying.

  After a few moments, I managed to get on my knees and Christopher to his.

  I cupped his face in my hands and looked into his eyes. "I'm… I'm sorry, Christopher…God I'm… I'm so sorry…"

  "…me too… I… I sh-sh-should've… should've remembered…"

  I turned his face up toward mine. "You knew all along?"

  His eyes filled with tears and he nodded. Once. Very quickly. "There's… there's knowing… and then there's knowing…."

  And in that moment I remembered what Arnold had said to me back in the hospital.

  …People can change a lot over that long. They can… they can forget about things if forgetting makes it easier for them to go on living….

  Good God. Had Arnold known? I thought he'd been talking about Christopher's family. Had he been trying to tell me?

  "What am I supposed to do now?" said Christopher. He wrapped his arms around my waist and buried his head against my chest. "Where am I supposed to go?"

  "Hang on, buddy," I said, stroking the back of his head. "Shhh. C'mon, there-there, c'mon…"

  "…I thought he was lying to me… I thought it was just his way of keeping me from… from hoping…"

  "…all right, all right, that's it, c'mon…"

  "…but I knew… I knew… but I couldn't know! I couldn't. The other kids, they needed me to be… to b-be in charge…"

  "…I know…"

  "…and they… they looked up to me… they depended on me… but I c-c-couldn't…

  couldn't let them know…"

  "…shhh, c'mon…"

  "…so I couldn't let myself know… I couldn't… oh god, I just couldn't…"

  "…I'm so sorry, Christopher…"

  "…because what reason was there for… for going on… h-h-how w-was I supposed to find a reason for… for any of us to g-go on living if I… if I admitted that… that…"

  "…so sorry, I'm so sorry… so sorry…"

  His grip around my waist tightened and he spluttered against my jacket. "…ohgod, Mark… what… what am I gonna do? Where am I supposed to go now?"

  "…we'll find a place for you. Tanya and me, we'll find a place for you, I swear it, I promise…"

  "…you're the only friend I've got, Mark… you're the only friend I've ever had…"

  "…count on it…"

  "…what am I gonna do?"

  "…we'll think of something. We will. I promise."

  And I held him. His broken spirit. His loneliness. His helplessness. Tightly against me I held all of this, wishing he could feel protected, needed, worthwhile.

  Herb Thomas had told me the whole story. How John Matthews' drinking had gotten so out of control that Ellen had threatened to have him committed to a detox clinic; how Paul had joined the Army and been killed in Iraq; how John Matthews had accidentally struck and killed his wife while driving drunk; and how he had later shot himself right after calling the police to report Ellen's death. The business had gone to Ellen's brother, who wanted no part of it and so sold it to Herb Thomas, who later expanded everything to include a motel and car wash and eventually let his nephew Larry and Larry's wife Beth buy into the business.

  The address he'd written on the slip of paper had been that of the cemetery where the Matthews' bodies were all buried.

  Christopher shuddered. So alone against me, so alone and frightened; a little boy suddenly in the dark after all the lights had unexpectedly gone off.

  "It'll get better," I said to Christopher. "I'll make sure it does."

  "…supposed to do now?"

  I leaned down and kissed the top of his head. "Shhh, c'mon… there-there…"

  "How touching," said Grendel. "How magnificently poignant. A four-handkerchief moment if ever I saw one. So much intimacy. You really ought to take this chance to have him suck your cock. He's very good at it."

  I started over to beat him with the bone again but Christopher stopped me.

  "It's all right, Mark. It's okay." He patted my chest. "I'm… I'm better. Thanks."

  "I didn't know how to tell you."

  "I know."

  "Can you forgive me?"

  He shook his head. "There's nothing to forgive. I just… forgot that a delusion is only helpful so long as you remember it's a delusion." He rose to his feet, walked over to Grendel, and spit in his face. "I don't suppose you remember the night we watched Mad Max, do you?"

  "I cannot say that I particularly remember much about the film, aside from those ridiculously overdone car chases."

  "Good. Then this next part is going to seem new and original to you." He pulled a key out of his pocket and tossed it over beside the bodies. "That key will unlock the restraints. You've got one hand free. Here." He turned, picked up a hacksaw, and tossed it toward Grendel. "Here's how this is going to work. Arnold and I tested this out a few times on other chains, just in case you think I'm guessing."

  "I would hope that you would not try guessing at anything," said Gre
ndel. "You never do well with your guesses, do you?"

  Christopher knelt in front of him. "In a minute, Mark and I are going to walk out of here. It will take us about a minute to get to the entrance of the mine—did I mention that we're parked in an abandoned mine?"

  "No. How clever of you."

  "Thanks. Anyway, we're going to walk to the entrance where I've got a bomb waiting—"

  "—all of the documentaries about Oklahoma City, right? Oh, you are a clever boy… and me with all that fertilizer for my gardens."

  Christopher backhanded him across the mouth. The sound was loud and sharp and deeply satisfying.

  "Please don't interrupt me again. When he and I get there, I'm going to activate the timer. It's set for fifteen minutes. Are you paying attention to me now? This next part is very important.

  "Arnold and I also tested this out on some of the body parts you left lying around. So here's the thing: you can saw through the chain holding your arm in place in about twelve or thirteen minutes. If you can do that, then you've got enough slack on your leg chain to get over there and pick up the key and set yourself free. That will give you about a minute-and-a-half to get out of this mine before the bomb goes off." He shook his head. "Don't know how you're going to manage that with only one leg, and to tell you the truth, I don't really care. That's if you get through the chain in thirteen minutes or less." He ran a hand over his mouth, then laughed softly. "The chain will take you thirteen minutes. But you can saw through your wrist in about seven, providing you don't pass out from the shock and pain. The choice is yours. On the bright side, if you don't get out and the bomb seals you in here"—he pointed to the bodies—"at least you'll have plenty to eat. For a while, anyway." He rose to his feet. "Come on, Mark. We need to get out of here before that storm gets any worse and parts of the road wash out."

  "You do not have it in you to do this," said Grendel.

  "Just watch," replied Christopher, stepping outside without so much as a glance back. I followed him, closing the door behind me.

  "Are you serious?" I asked him.

  "Goddamn right I'm serious—and don't look at me like that. It's more of a chance than he ever gave any of us!" He started walking toward the entrance. I followed after him.

  "Christopher, please don't do this."

  "Give me one reason why not."

  I grabbed his arm and spun him toward me. "Because you're better than this!"

  "No, I'm not. Maybe once, but not now. It was sure nice to believe that for a while, though. Thank you for that." He yanked his arm from my grip and kept walking.

  "I can't let you do this!"

  He whirled around. "And how exactly do you plan on stopping me? You want to do the stumblebum routine again? Because I'm about wrung the fuck out, Mark! Do you understand? I don't have any fight left in me! I got one thing left to do, one lousy goddamn thing and it's the only thing I've got left to look forward to, and then there's nothing! NOTHING! Everything else has been taken away from me, so now you're gonna take this one last thing away?"

  "Don't you dare lay this at my feet! Don't you fucking dare! I will not stand here and let you force me into letting you commit murder again!"

  "Murder? Again? Are you listening to what you're saying? You think what I did at the truck stop was murder? You think this is taking another human being's life? They're not human! They never were!"

  "Yes, they are! We may not like the idea of being part of the same species as them, but that doesn't change the fact that they're people!"

  "By whose definition? Yours? The Bible's? Tell me, Mark—under whose definition does Grendel qualify as a human being?"

  "Please don't do this, Christopher. Please."

  "This is getting boring."

  I was starting to panic. "Maybe boring for you, but for me—pure scintillation. On my deathbed when my grandchildren ask me what was the high point of my life, I'll tell them without a doubt it was standing in an abandoned mine wired to explode and arguing the finer points of the evolutionary scale with Christopher Matthews while he was being an unreasonable horse's ass."

  He grabbed my collar and pulled me up into his face. "Answer me one question, okay? At what point do you say 'no more'? Can you tell me that? Can you tell me at which point Mark Sieber says, 'I will give you all the benefit of every doubt up to a point, but once you cross this line, you lose your right to call yourself a human being and walk safely on the Earth?"

  "Stop this."

  "Where's that line for you, Mark? Or does it even exist? Fuck!—I'll bet you're one of these people who think that Hitler might've been okay if he'd gotten a few more hugs from Mommy."

  "Stop this."

  "GIVE ME ONE REASON! Just one!"

  "Because I'm your friend and I'm telling you that if you do this, it will diminish you for the rest of your life and make everything you and the others have been through meaningless."

  He froze, staring at me.

  "If you do this," I continued, "you will never forgive yourself. Because somewhere inside you know that if you carry out this unbelievably sadistic act, you'll be dragging yourself down to his level and there's no coming back from there. He's hard-wired, but you're not. Do you want to be just like him, Christopher? Do you really think you could live with yourself after this was done? Because if you do think that, then all of this has been for nothing. Everything you've been through and lost, all the pain and humiliation Arnold and Rebecca and Thomas suffered at his hands, the deaths of the other children, all of it will made worthless."

  "Then what's left? Can you tell me what's left for me to believe in?"

  I reached up and gripped his wrist. "This," I said. "You feel that, my hand on you? This is my hand and my word. I am your friend. You have that. You have my friendship. But that ends the moment you activate that timer."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "No. It's just the way it'll be. I'm sorry."

  "Me too."

  We stared at each other for a few more moments.

  He let go of my collar. "Pretty smart for a janitor."

  "I have moments."

  He looked at me, at the bomb, then walked over and yanked out all the wires. "Fine. There. Happy now?"

  "Yes. Thank you."

  He stared at the mass of wires in his hand. "You want to know something terrible?"

  "What's one more? Sure."

  "The other collars, the ones he had us wearing? They're mixed in with the foam and C4. They're still active. Even if he'd managed to get out and make this far, once he was seventy-five feet away, this thing would have gone off, anyway. He never would have made it."

  "You're right. That's terrible."

  "Yeah." He threw down the wires, then peeled back the C4 and removed the collars, tossing them into the rain and mud. "We need to load up the bike."

  "You're not going to believe this."

  "What?"

  I patted down my pockets. "I think I dropped my wallet back there."

  He shook his head, almost smiling. "Then you should go and get it."

  "Be right back."

  He started strapping everything onto the motorcycle and packing up the bags in the side compartments. I looked back every chance I got to make sure he wasn't watching. I got to the trailer, waited until Christopher's back was turned, then stepped inside, closing the door behind me.

  "My hero," said Grendel. "Did my sweet boy have a change of heart and send you to rescue me?"

  "Yes and no."

  I pulled the gun from the back of my pants and shot him in the center of his forehead, then kept firing until the clip was empty and the silencer was a smoking, charred glop of melted plastic.

  Tell me, Dad, what would you have done?

  I'd've shot him a lot sooner.

  How's the fishing?

  Fine. I enjoy it here. Don't you worry about me anymore, you hear?

  Am I still a good man, Dad?

  I'm a little biased on that point, Mark.

  I stepped closer
to Grendel's body, tilted my head to admire how the blood had blossomed out against the back wall; it looked like a giant grisly rose.

  "I am a good and decent man," I said to the rose.

  It was a prayer.

  Christopher was just finishing with loading the motorcycle when I came back.

  "Find your wallet?"

  I patted my pocket. "Got it."

  He handed me a helmet, then looked back at the trailer. "Suppose we should call the police?"

  "No."

  He cocked his head to the side. "You answered that awfully fast. There's at least three ways I can think of that he can get away."

  "Christopher?"

  "Yes…?"

  "He's not going to get away."

  His eyes widened. "What did you do?"

  I shook my head. "You didn't ask me that."

  He stared at me for a moment longer, gave a quick nod of his head, then reached out and squeezed my shoulder. "Thank you."

  "Can we go home now, please?"

  Christopher put on his helmet, swung onto the bike, and I climbed on behind him. He gunned the engine—it had a lot of power—and we started our long and slow ride through the mud toward the highway.

  We rode for the better part of two-and-a-half hours before getting off the mountain. Three times we had to stop and walk the motorcycle through deep patches of mud that would have swallowed us whole had we been riding the thing. By the time the rain let up we were just over the bridge into Cincinnati. Christopher took a couple of side streets right into the heart of downtown and more traffic than I'd seen anywhere in a week. Eventually he pointed to a large 50s-style diner and I patted his shoulder.

  We parked, removed our helmets, and went inside. The place was crowded and a little too warm. The waitress seated us toward the back, near the restrooms, and left to get our drink orders.

  "So what do you feel like?" I said. "I'm buying."

  "And a big spender. Is there no end to the surprises in store for me?"

  I decided on what I wanted, then closed the menu and looked across the table at him. "What's the first thing you want to do when we get home tonight?"

  "Not my home," he said, not taking his gaze from the menu.

  "Work with me here, Christopher. Tanya's going to understand."