Shreve is survived by his daughter, Lauren Shreve, and ex-wife, Marybeth Shreve, of Swartz Creek. Also surviving are two sisters, Alice Westlake of Minneapolis, Minnesota, and Mary Kramer of Houston, Texas; a brother, Bradley Shreve, and his wife, Margie, of Mission, Kansas; and several nieces and nephews.
The family suggests donations to the Eastern Michigan Food Bank in lieu of flowers. There will be a memorial service for family only at Kelly Funeral Home on Calkins Road in Swartz Creek.
I put down the paper, then ran into my bedroom all the while telling myself, This isn’t happening to me. In bed, I so badly wanted to sleep, but rest had vanished with the Scarecrow’s life. To sleep was to dream, but I didn’t have room for dreams, just for nightmares.
The knock at the front door stirred my stress like witches at a boiling cauldron. I looked out the window to see if it was the police. Every knock at the door or ring of the phone caused that reaction. But it was only ex-Dad. I pulled it together and stumbled toward the door.
“Are you ready to go?” ex-Dad said as the bright winter sun almost blinded me when I opened the door. It wasn’t a gust of wind that made the next sound, but ex-Dad’s normal condition of impatience. He sighed, then added, “Mick, get dressed already.”
I looked at the clothes that were disappointing ex-Dad: my Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt and blue jeans. “Fine,” I snapped, and left him standing behind the slammed door. Per Mom’s instructions, ex-Dad wasn’t allowed in the house. I found that rule both mean and meaningful.
I went back to my room, and found tan slacks and a white shirt on the closet floor. As I rushed to get redressed, I imagined ex-Dad’s foot tapping with impatience on the front stoop. Half of me wanted to take a long time to make him wait. The other half, the stronger half, hurried in some instinctive desire not to upset my father. As I buttoned up my one dress shirt, I stared into the mirror, thinking about Mom, who worked so hard to make my life better, thinking about all the things ex-Dad had done to make my life worse. The mirror reflected a truth I could no longer avoid. The one who loved me least was the one I would probably do anything to please. “That’s better,” ex-Dad said when I returned.
I nodded, then grabbed my winter coat even though it wouldn’t warm the chill in my bones, which seemed infinite.
“Great day for football!” ex-Dad said as we walked toward his silver Tahoe parked in the dull gray, cracked driveway. I kept my head down, mouth closed, and got in.
“Help yourself,” ex-Dad said as he pointed at a box of a donuts. There were two missing from the box and powdered sugar on the steering wheel. Last time we were together, he told me he was on a diet. By the time I finished my first one—the rush of sugar making me feel momentarily groggy—we were at the entrance to the expressway.
“I think the Lions are going to win today, yes sir,” ex-Dad said.
“Maybe,” I said, killing time and filling in the space in his sports monologue.
“Here’s the problem with the Lions this year, if you ask me.” And then he began his review of the offense, defense, special teams, etc. As ex-Dad rattled on, my mind was looking for a place to land. Not even the distracting detailed anti-Lions diatribe in my ear could move my mind from the Scarecrow. It was like my head was a TV, but no matter what button I pressed on the remote, there was only one show and it was in endless reruns.
As we drove to Detroit, I saw a billboard for a Chico’s. It made me sad as I thought about the life Mom lived compared to the one she was promised by ex-Dad. Exhausted from lack of sleep, and desperate to talk about something that would distract me from my own mistakes, I interrupted ex-Dad’s commentary on the Lion’s running game, to ask him about something I had needed to know for a long time. “Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Cheat on Mom,” I said. My words set off a huge sigh, followed by a wall of silence. I wanted to understand ex-Dad so I could understand myself. After watching Brody self-destruct like his father and after seeing the violence bottled up in Aaron, I wondered if, like them, my future was determined for me by my father’s actions.
“Mick, that’s complicated,” he finally said, though that was not even close to an answer.
“Explain it to me; we have time.” I knew the drive to Detroit was over an hour.
Ex-Dad drove a little faster, cutting in and out of lanes, but the thing chasing him was in the car and in the past, not in the rearview mirror.
“When you get married, you’ll understand,” ex-Dad said in that “we’re done” tone.
“How?”
“How what?” The words were followed with a loud sigh set at volume ten.
“How will I understand then? I need to understand it now,” I said, careful in my words; this wasn’t about wanting, for I knew I no longer wanted anything. Anything in the past I had said I wanted—Nicole or Whitney—seemed trivial and childish. This was about need. “Just tell me.”
Ex-Dad took a deep breath, no doubt wishing Ford Field was closer to Swartz Creek.
“I’m waiting,” I said. My heart was almost exploding with the honesty of the statement.
“Listen, Mick, I don’t want to say anything bad about your mother to you,” ex-Dad said and I tried not to laugh. I wished I could turn the rearview mirror into a time machine, taking us back into the past so ex-Dad could recall all the bad things he had said to me over the years. To recall all the tears Mom had cried, all the words ex-Dad had yelled, and all the lies he was trying so hard to forget.
“It’s not about her,” I said, speaking deep from within.
“Marriage is difficult. It’s just not for everyone.” Ex-Dad’s voice lacked the confidence of moments earlier. Obviously examining and accepting responsibility for the mistakes in your life was harder than dissecting special teams.
“For better or worse,” I mumbled. I’d seen enough TV to know the words.
“I know the damn wedding vows, Mick.”
“You promised.”
“Like I said, when you’re older, then you’ll understand,” his voice was slowing down even as the speed of the car increased. We were going about eighty miles an hour yet were still being passed by other cars. I had to wonder what conversations or memories those drivers were running from.
“But why did you cheat?” I asked. I sounded both wise and innocent at the same time. “I mean, how could you do that to Mom? How could you lie to her like that? How could—”
“That’s enough, mister!” ex-Dad shouted. He called me “mister” when he was most angry, when he treated me most like a child. It was his human way of lifting his leg.
“No, that’s not enough!” I shouted back even if I knew I’d never crack his wall of denial. All I wanted and needed was for him to say, Mick, what I did was wrong. I’m sorry, forgive me.
“Can’t a guy spend time with his son without this bullshit?” Another shout, another sigh.
“It’s not bullshit,” I said.
“Watch your mouth, mister,” he snapped back.
“But you said it.”
“I’m an adult, different rules,” ex-Dad proclaimed.
“But why can’t I talk like—”
“That’s your trouble, you talk too much.” Seething had replaced his sighing.
I wanted to ask what he meant, but we both knew. It was something we didn’t speak about, but it was always hovering over us like the darkest cloud in a stormy sky. There was never a time I was with him that I didn’t remember our conversation after I saw him with that other woman.
The rest of the drive was swallowed in silence. At the game, there were thousands of people in the stands and I wished I could have exchanged seats with any of them. Ex-Dad tried talking to me about the game, but I mostly grunted, shrugged, and gave him nothing in return. Instead, I drifted into dreams. Dreams of running out onto the field and saying, My name is Mick Salisbury. I’m fifteen years old, and I’ve helped kill a man. But it’s not my fault. Nothing is my fault or responsibility. I learned t
hat lesson from my dad. But I also dreamed of saying, Dad, I’m in big trouble. I need your help. But deep down, unlike Mom who would risk anything to protect me, I knew ex-Dad would sacrifice nothing. Three hours later, the gun sounded and the Lions ran off the field. A cheer emerged from the stands, but I was quiet.
On the trip home, we talked more about nothing that mattered because for me nothing really did. I wondered if Brody and Aaron felt this way, like having an itch you can’t scratch or can’t even locate. My heart under my shirt thumped like a rap bass line.
As we pulled off the interstate, ex-Dad didn’t drive home but parked us outside of the abandoned GM factory that sat mostly deserted. Ex-Dad shifted in his seat to face me, but I turned away. My eyes were focused on the floor.
“Your mother tells me your grades are starting to slip. Is that true?” ex-Dad asked.
“I guess,” I mumbled as I awaited another sigh-filled lecture without him listening to me.
“You have to get your grades up.”
“Why?” Out the window, I noticed the darkness of the ghost factory looming larger.
“That’s why,” ex-Dad said, his voice hoarse from cheering. I looked over to see him pointing out the window. “GM is dying. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have a job.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wonder how things would have been for you if I would have lost my job, like Brody’s dad did all those years ago,” ex-Dad continued. “I had a little more seniority, so when they drew the line, I stayed on, and Brody’s dad fell off. Once he lost his job, I knew that was the beginning of the end for him. It was only a matter of time. That accident was a blessing.”
I answered in silence. I thought about saying, Dad, don’t you know that it wasn’t an accident? Brody’s dad killed himself. I wondered if I should say, Dad, do you want to know a secret? I could tell him something so he would have to reply in return, and answer my question he’d avoided earlier. I was torn between wanting to bond with my father and the bond of my word to Brody. The rubber band I had become was being pulled by both sides. Sooner rather than later, that rubber band would snap, crackle, and then pop.
“I wonder sometimes what would have happened if I’d lost my job then,” he said. “In some ways, Brody’s dad was the lucky one.”
“Lucky?” Was death better than a terrible life? If it was, then didn’t we do a good thing putting the Scarecrow out of his misery? Maybe it wasn’t murder; it was a mercy killing.
“He had a chance to get out while he was younger,” ex-Dad said, then sighed. “He could have started over, but I stayed. I stayed and now I’m the one who’s trapped.”
I stared at the broken parking lot of the phantom factory. “Trapped?”
“I don’t want that for you, Mick, so you’ve got to work harder. You’ve got to learn. You’ve got to think about your future,” my father said. “Trouble is, my generation used up most of it.”
“I’ll try to do better at school.” It was the closest I’d felt to my father in some time. It was the most he’d ever revealed to me about himself. I wondered if I would ever experience that again. We drove the rest of the way in silence, neither of us wanting to ruin the moment. At the top of my street, I said, “Dad, I’m sorry about this morning.”
Ex-Dad looked at me, puzzled. I wanted to go on and say, Dad, are you sorry? Not just for this morning, but for everything. Or, If you can’t say you’re sorry, then at least admit the sin. Are you ready? He didn’t apologize or confess, just made more empty promises: “I’ll make everything up to you.”
“Sure thing,” I said as I studied the floor of the car. I didn’t believe his words, or mine.
“What the hell!” ex-Dad said out of nowhere. I felt the car speed up as my head jerked up to stare out the windshield at the police car sitting in my driveway.
As we drove toward the house, my mind raced through my choices. The Tahoe was going slow enough, I could jump out and take off running down the street, which would connect to another street, then another, and one of the roads might allow me to escape. Maybe I could turn toward my father and admit it all. Dad, something happened nine days ago. We’d been drinking, and things got out of hand. It was my fault. You see, I spilled the bottle, and I was the one who mentioned the Scarecrow. Aaron started it, or maybe it was Brody, but it all connects back to me. Or I could turn toward him and admit nothing, saying instead, Look, Aaron and Brody, they went crazy and killed this guy. I didn’t do anything, I tried to stop them. I wanted to tell. But I have to stand by my friends. That’s what you want, right, Dad? Or I could turn toward him but not turn on my friends: Dad, I did it. I’m willing to take the consequences. No, nobody else was involved. I’ll take the punishment. I’m not afraid of anything anymore. But I didn’t say or do anything; it was like I was paralyzed. When Dad pulled the SUV into the driveway, Mom came to the car with the police at her side.
“Mick, get out of the car please,” a black cop said, pointing his finger at me.
As I got out of the SUV, I thought how this must be what a car accident is like: everything happening so fast, and yet you can see everything, take in every detail. I noticed a mole on the white cop’s neck and a small scar on the forehead of the black cop. I smelled the Kool smoke surrounding my mother, tasted the donuts from that morning on the back of my teeth, and felt the moisture of the sweat coming from my father’s forehead. And I heard every vowel sound of every syllable of every word the white cop spoke when he said, “Michael Salisbury, you’re under arrest for the murder of Edward Shreve.”
· · ·
All the way to the police station, I didn’t speak a word. I just sat in the back of the car. I kept my head down and tried not to look into the rearview mirror at ex-Dad’s SUV trailing behind us. Mom had stayed behind with cops who were searching the house. My eyes searched the car’s floor for a sharp object, not to cut my handcuffed wrists, but to sever my vocal cords.
From the police car, everything happened just like I’d seen on TV: photos, fingerprinting, body searches. From the booking office, I went not to jail but to a holding cell in the courthouse. The room was purgatory: not heaven, not hell, just a place to await my fate. Finally, the door opened and I was taken to another room. There my parents were standing with a guy in a suit whom I didn’t know. My parents played their roles perfectly: Mom was worried; ex-Dad was angry.
“Michael, my name is David Richards. The court’s appointed me to represent you in this matter.” The guy stuck out his hand, but I couldn’t move a muscle for fear that one muscle could move another and then another, and then my mouth would move. I did not speak or shake.
“In a little while, you’re going to go before a judge,” Richards said. “You’re going to be charged with the murder of Mr. Shreve. This is a serious offense. Mick, do you understand that? They have just enough evidence to arrest you, maybe even to hold you, but not to convict.”
I didn’t even blink until Richards looked away and asked my parents to leave us alone.
“You’ve got to tell me what happened,” Richards said, gesturing for me to sit at the table as he sat down next to me. “I can’t defend you unless I know what happened. Tell me who this man is, what your connection to him is, and what you did. I need to know the whole story.”
I nodded, then cracked my knuckles, but said nothing.
“Mick, this isn’t the trial. It’s only an arraignment, but it’s important. It will determine if you go free today, or if you’ll be detained until the next hearing. So, you’ve got to talk to me.”
Nothing.
“I’m going to plead you not guilty,” he said. “I’ve briefly talked to the DA and with what they have, I don’t know how they got this far even to arrest you, but the system doesn’t work in your favor. I’m going to try to get the charges dropped at this hearing. If not, they can hold you for a few days while we argue that if the case goes on, it should be tried in juvenile court.”
My eyes must have given away that I f
elt like he was speaking some other language.
“All they can do right now is place you with the victim. They arrested you on that, but mainly to get your fingerprints and match them with some evidence at the scene,” Richards said.
“What evidence?” I finally broke my silence.
“A lighter. Do you own a lighter, Mick? Bone colored?” he asked.
I could lie, but I knew from watching TV shows that once you got caught in lies, you were toast. The lawyer said he was on my side, but the only thing on my side was my silence.
“I had a lighter. I lost it.”
“Okay, how did it get next to the dead man?” Richards asked.
I shrugged.
“Mick, if I’m going to defend you, you need to be honest with me.”
“I don’t know, okay?” I said, then crossed my arms.
“They also think they have a murder weapon, a brick found near the body,” Richards said. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t give away anything. Maybe an eyelash flutter, but nothing else.
“Will they find your fingerprints there?” Richards asked me, to no response. “You need to tell me right now about what happened on that night. I’m not saying you have to talk to the cops, not yet, anyway, but I’m going to tell your parents they need to get a new lawyer if I can’t get some cooperation from you. Mick, this is your last chance to let me help you save yourself.”
“Go ahead.” I could barely talk: all my energy was focused on not speaking.
“Don’t do this to yourself or your family,” Richards said as he rose from the table. He adjusted his dark blue tie, ran his fingers through his black, gelled hair, and then leaned into me.
I stared at the floor, looking for cracks in the concrete.
“Last chance. You tell me the truth, then I can defend you,” Richards said, then bounced his hands off the table. I wanted to tell Richards, but if I told one person, he might tell another. I couldn’t afford one crack in the pavement of silence: one crack leads to another, then another.
“I didn’t do anything,” I said.
“Listen, Mick, this is the most important thing for you to know,” Richards said, then sat back down. He grabbed me by the shoulders, then forced my chin up to look at him. “There’s guilt, there’s innocence, and there’s what they can prove. That’s all I care about: what they can prove. They have their version of the truth. I need your version of it so I can defend you.”
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