“Do what?”
“Not tell about this,” Brody almost whispered. “Those sirens, that’s probably a fire truck. There won’t be anything left of the Scarecrow for them to find, and we can forget it happened.”
“But on TV—” I started, thinking about every TV crime show I’d ever witnessed.
Brody laughed, but my mouth couldn’t move in an upward direction. “This is fucking Swartz Creek, Mick, not New York or Vegas. I doubt there’s a CSI Flint.”
“I guess.”
“Nobody’s going to know,” Brody said in the tone of a teacher announcing a test. Brody moved from the driveway and sat on the lawn. He leaned back, resting on his elbows, and looked up into the night sky.
“But what if?” I asked.
“Besides, it was just the Scarecrow,” Brody said, then grunted. Like he was unsure of the spin to put on the words. “I mean, Aaron was right. It’s not like anybody’s going to care.”
I shrugged, but wanted to say, Dude, he’s still a person. Or rather, he was a person.
“Don’t be scared,” Brody told me. I wasn’t sure if it was a suggestion or an order.
“I’m not,” I said, another step down what seemed like an endless road of lies.
“You can keep a secret; I know that,” Brody said, then kind of half smiled. I scratched my head, then joined Brody sitting on the lawn, looking at the infinite sky rather than the equally infinite connection of cracks in the dull gray driveway. The siren had long vanished; the crickets in the air and cars out on the street took over again as the soundtrack for the late evening.
“Weird about Aaron’s dad, huh?” Brody mumbled, like he didn’t want to be heard.
I cracked my knuckles as my answer, knowing there was not much left to say. I was surprised by Aaron’s story, but then not by his actions or Brody’s. For us all, the Scarecrow was the last straw. I thought I knew Aaron; I was wrong. I thought I knew what Brody was capable of, but I was also wrong. The only question remaining as I looked up at the almost full moon, which looked like a cue ball shining white in the sky, was, What was I capable of doing?
Brody broke into my thoughts with a stiff slap to my leg. “I gotta get home.”
I got up and dusted the grass stains off my borrowed pants.
“It’s gonna be okay,” Brody reminded me, and I nodded in agreement. I was too tired, too stressed, and too everything to say anything, or even think of things I wanted to say.
“Light me up!” Brody shouted as he pulled his last cigarette from behind his ear.
I buried my hand in my pocket and my heart raced. Every nerve cell in my body tingled; I wanted to scream and stomp my feet. Instead, I took a deep breath, feeling only acid in my lungs. I quickly turned my back on Brody and acted like I didn’t hear him. I put my head down and sprinted into the house, leaving him alone in the darkness with his unlit smoke. There’s no light because there’s no lighter. The bone white lighter with my fingerprints all over it was on the ground next to the charred bones and melted skin of the Scarecrow.
Part Two
Sunday, November 14
9:30 a.m.
I was jolted awake by the ringing of the telephone. I took a quick glance at the clock wondering who would be calling me early on a Sunday morning. The phone felt heavy as I picked it up. I guessed maybe it was ex-Dad telling me one of those “work things” had come up, so he wouldn’t be taking me to the Lions football game. I wouldn’t be surprised by his broken promise; in fact, I almost expected constant disappointment from him.
“Hello.” My rough morning voice croaked into the receiver.
“Have you seen the paper?” It was Brody.
“What paper?” I asked.
“The fucking Flint Urinal, what do you think?” Brody shouted through the phone.
“No, why?” I said, as I recalled how I used to enjoy reading the newspaper. I got hooked when Mr. Daunt made us study current events in social studies. But since that night, I couldn’t bring myself to even glance at it. I was afraid of seeing my picture on the front page.
“There’s an obituary,” Brody said. He was struggling for words. “He had a name.”
“Who?”
“The Scarecrow had a name,” Brody answered. Before I could tell Brody I didn’t want to know any more, he dropped it like a bag of bricks. “Edward Shreve.”
There was silence on both ends of the phone, not mourning the death, but instead mourning the birth of Edward Shreve to both of us. He’d been the Scarecrow: not real, but a character without a true name. If he had a name, he was a person. If he was a person, then my name would have another word next to it: murderer.
“You know who that is?” Brody asked.
“It’s the Scarecrow,” I replied, wondering why Brody was acting so dense.
“No, dude, I think it’s Cell Phone Girl’s father,” Brody whispered.
“What?”
“Her name is Lauren Shreve. The paper said he’s from Swartz Creek and he had a daughter,” Brody said, as I recalled that Cell Phone Girl had missed school on Friday.
More silence, except for the sound of me cracking my knuckles.
“Dude, do you think I should tell her?” Brody said softly.
“Are you crazy?” The thought raised me out of bed. I checked to see that the door was closed, but wondered if Mom was on the other end of the phone. “Are you fucking crazy?”
I listened closely; the F word would smoke her out if she was listening in without permission. Instead, there was just more silence.
“I know, I know,” Brody repeated. “Don’t worry, Mick, what happened dies with us.”
I wanted to say, I understand you wanting to tell someone. I can’t bear this burden of knowing and not telling. But I know we can’t change the past; we gotta protect our futures. Like you said, this dies with us. Yet, as each day passed since that night, I wondered if telling would enable me to sleep, eat, or breathe again. I couldn’t speak of that night to anyone. We’d really only talked about it once. The next night, we’d got our stories together. No one ever suggested going to the police. No one spoke of the details. Our code of silence was complete.
“We can’t talk about this over the phone,” I offered. “Can you come over?”
“We’re going to church in, like, five minutes,” Brody replied.
“Stay away from confession,” I joked, to no response.
“Dude, calm down,” Brody replied, and I seethed in silence.
After a long pause, I asked, “What now?”
“You’re the center of all this,” Brody said aloud, which was what I guessed both he and Aaron had been thinking ever since that night. I wasn’t just the center; I was the point of the triangle.
“Brody, listen, it was Aaron who—” I started.
Brody cut off me. “It was your idea to find the Scarecrow.”
“But you were the one who—”
But Brody finished it. “Dude, it doesn’t matter now. It’s done.” I thought how wrong Brody was: because it was done, now these questions mattered more. They’re questions we’ve told ourselves we’ll never answer: to our families, the police, a judge, or a jury. In my heart, the fear of being caught crushed the guilt of what I’d done every single time.
“Fine, I’ll call Aaron,” I said.
“When’re you getting back from the game?” Brody asked. He tried to sound casual, like this was just another phone call. Like it was just another morning. Like nothing had changed.
“I don’t know, around six,” I said as I finally swung my feet onto the cold floor.
“Tell Aaron, we’ll shoot some pool tonight, figure this out,” Brody said.
“Fine.” I decided to save my words. I needed to teach myself not to talk. I wouldn’t say what I needed to, let alone what I wanted to, which was, Brody, what is there to figure out? They found the body. They know who he is. If they figured out who he was, then they can figure out how he died. How he was murdered. Then they can figure out
who did it. Then our lives are over, too.
“I gotta go,” Brody said hurriedly, not even saying goodbye before he hung up.
I slammed the phone down in frustration at Brody, Aaron, and myself. I crawled out of bed, then headed to the bathroom. My head ached, not from drinking since I’ve not touched a drop since that night, but from lack of sleep. Once I fell asleep, I was fine, but I’d seen too many two in the mornings these past nights. When I woke up in the morning, I lay in the bed, anxiety like a heavy wet blanket I couldn’t shake off.
I’d barely made it to school each day. I pretended to care about classes. I couldn’t see the world in front of me: my vision was clouded with doubt and dread. I was in my personal hell, nothing but waiting. Just feeling utterly and totally helpless to change a thing.
I heard Mom in the kitchen, so I needed to join her and act normal. I wondered if she could see the battle that raged in me. Every day I had fought, and every day I had beat, the urge to return: I wanted to return to the scene of the crime, not to relive the horror and not to relieve my guilt, but to try to retrieve the lighter. But every day after school, I thought about getting off the bus at WindGate and getting back my life that was still buried in the ashes. That shadow of doubt, a huge, dark, thundering, hovering mass of suspicion, hung over me more than anything—more than the guilt, more than the regret—perhaps matched only by fear. Fear that I would break and talk, and doubt that both Aaron and Brody would stay silent. Aaron, I didn’t trust: Aaron kept his true history from Brody and me. If you lied about one thing, you would lie about anything. I knew Aaron was a survivor. As I dialed his number, I wondered if that instinct would trump all others, even friendship.
“Hello?” Aaron’s mom’s voice sounded odd to me.
“It’s Mick. Is Aaron there?” I pulled out my polite talking-to-adults voice.
“He’s still asleep,” she replied. “Do you want me to wake him up? Is it important?”
I paused. Every question was a trap. If I said it was important, then she would want to know why. That would force another lie. If I lied again, then I would need to remember it. Carrying the burden of falsehood was breaking my back. “Just have him call me, okay?”
“Well, he should probably be up by now, anyway; just a moment,” Aaron’s mom said and the line went silent. I wanted to say, Mrs. Bishop, I know all about what happened with your son and your husband. I’m really sorry. But as the words formed in my head, they were burned away by thoughts of a possible conversation between Brody and Cell Phone Girl: Hey, I’m really sorry to hear about your dad. How did I know? Umm, you see …
“Mick?” Aaron said softly.
“Hey, Brody called and said you should look at the paper,” I told him. As Aaron considered what I said, I realized Brody was right: I was both the center and the point. While I didn’t lift a finger to help or hinder, I was the one who lit the spark that started and ended it.
“Why?” Aaron said after a pause.
“Look in the obituaries,” I answered. “Look under the name Shreve.”
“Who?”
Even though I knew Mom couldn’t hear, I whispered anyway, “The Scarecrow.”
“So what?”
“So, I don’t know. It creeps me out to know he had a name, a life, a family,” I said.
“He’s still dead,” Aaron replied. “Dead is dead.”
“But, man, what we did to him,” I said as I struggled to find small words to wrap around my almost overwhelming feeling of remorse. I understood why Brody wanted to talk to the Scarecrow’s daughter. I understood Brody wanting to say “I’m sorry” to someone because if I could say “I’m sorry,” then someone could forgive me; if someone could forgive me, then I could stop feeling the guilt, the shame, the regret, and the dread that drove my days and nights.
“It’s done, spilled milk,” Aaron said flatly, but something spiked in me. The little we had talked about it, Aaron had never once expressed regret, only the fear of getting caught.
“Brody wants to get together tonight. We’ll come by, okay?” The words rushed out of me.
“Fine,” he said.
“You haven’t told anyone, have you?” I said slowly, ashamed for asking but unable to stop myself.
“Have you?” Aaron replied.
“Who am I going to tell?” I said sharply. Telling ex-Dad was out of the question. I couldn’t tell Mom either. It would crush her to know I could do something so horrible. But if I had told her, I knew she would protect me somehow. Mom’s maternal instincts, I guessed, would be stronger than any notion of law, order, or justice.
“Well, I’m not talking,” Aaron said. “What time are you coming over?”
“Six, maybe a little later.”
“See you two then,” Aaron said, then hung up the phone. In the white noise of the dial tone, I wondered why Aaron said “you two.” I felt the urge to find my geometry book from last year. I was caught in a triangle of fate. What if Aaron and Brody were talking to each other without me? What if Brody really believed it was my fault and persuaded Aaron to believe likewise? The connections between Brody and me were stronger than those between Aaron and Brody, and me and Aaron. Maybe Aaron knew that and assumed Brody and I would team up. Maybe Brody thought that Aaron and I would team up against him. I drew triangles in my head as I started toward the kitchen. I thought about the shapes, sizes, and names, but in all of them, I was the point.
Mom sat in her usual spot curled up next to the heat vent as I stumbled into the kitchen. I could tell from the way she looked at me that she wanted to talk, which was never good for me.
“Good morning, Mom,” I said, trying to break her icy stare.
“You feeling okay, Mick?” she replied lightning fast. “Is something wrong?”
I grunted, reaching for a cereal box. I avoided another lie by not answering the question.
“Mick, is there something you need to tell me? You seem distracted lately,” she said.
I didn’t answer out loud, only with the sound of the beating of my telltale heart.
“So, how was homecoming?” she asked. I wondered if she noticed me say “shit” under my breath. “Don’t you have any pictures?”
I knew I was trapped in this lie. All week, I’d played along, even letting her buy me a new suit. Then last night, I’d told her more lies about my imaginary date. I’d actually hung out with Aaron and Brody. Not drinking, certainly not talking about the Scarecrow. That truth remained buried, but Mom had me busted. It was a matter of getting out with the least damage.
“You didn’t go to homecoming, did you?” Mom said, then took a deep drag on her Kool.
I just stared at my empty bowl, not wanting to lie again, not ready to tell the truth.
Mom sighed as she expelled the smoke. “You’re turning out just like your father.” The tone in her voice slapped my face, but didn’t dislodge my tongue from the back of my throat.
“Mick, how can you lie to me like that?” Her voice sounded beyond sad, almost lost.
“Mom, I …” But I faded out, like some sound disappearing off into the distance.
She shook her head. “Mick, didn’t your father’s example teach you anything?” I filled up my bowl, then leaned against the kitchen counter. I was unable to stand up straight.
“It’s one thing to take money from me, but to lie to me, Mick, that’s worse.”
“I know, Mom,” I finally said.
“Mick, say the words.” She raised her voice but remained seated.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.
“For what?” she asked. “It’s not enough, Mick, to say you’re sorry, you have to admit responsibility. You have to say the words. Don’t be like your father, be a man. Admit it.”
I stirred the cereal in my bowl, matching the churning in my stomach.
“Mick, show me you’re becoming a man. Show me you’re a better man than your—”
“Mom, I’m sorry I lied to you about homecoming,” I confessed.
&nb
sp; “What did you do with the money I gave you? I know your father gave you money, too.”
“Spent it on stuff,” I mumbled. I’d been wrong about my parents not talking. I’d trusted in their hatred of each other, but they’d betrayed me by speaking to each other, at least about me.
She shook her head like it weighed two thousand pounds. “Mick, this is very sad.”
“You’re not going to tell Dad that I got money from you, too, are you?”
“No, Mick, I won’t tell him, I’ll leave that to you,” she said, then actually smiled.
“What are you smiling about?” I asked.
“I amaze myself,” she said, then laughed. “When he asked me if I’d given you money for homecoming, too, I just avoided the question. I didn’t lie to him, but I didn’t tell him the truth. That’s up to you.”
“Okay,” I said, knowing that telling the truth wasn’t really going to bring any good to anyone.
“But if he pushed me, I probably would have lied to protect you, Mick. I guess my instinct is to do anything to protect you. You’ll understand when you’re a parent.”
“Anything?” I asked. She nodded, confirming both her love and her powerlessness.
“A mother would do anything to protect her child,” she said.
I wanted to ask her, How can you protect me from the things I’ve already done? I finished my cereal as she finished her smoke. Before I could respond, she’d picked up her purse and left by the back door. She never stayed to see ex-Dad when he picked me up.
I saw the Flint Journal on the kitchen counter. I walked around it like it was a dead animal. I didn’t need to read the words to make it more real than it already was, but I couldn’t resist. Sometimes when I tried so hard to be strong, it only proved how weak I was.
OBITUARIES
Edward Shreve, 39, of Swartz Creek, died Friday, November 5, in a fire at his temporary residence.
He was the son of the late Floyd and Anna Shreve and a graduate of Flint Northern High School.
Shreve was previously employed as a skilled tradesman at the General Motors parts division in Swartz Creek.
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