by Mark Parker
The crow devoured the last of Sammy’s eye and flew away.
THERE ARE CORNERS IN THE WORLD
WHERE LOST THINGS GATHER
Robert Morrish
I had just turned twelve that year, an awkward age, precariously balanced between a child’s cloudless skies and the gathering storms of young adulthood. My brother Trevor was my guide beneath those threatening thunderheads, leading me toward some tantalizing, distant border. At fifteen, he seemed a world apart, athletic and quick-witted and assured with girls in ways that I could hardly even imagine.
We were still living in Michigan then, squeezed between the vastly liberal college town of Ann Arbor to the east, and a shotgun-spread pattern of small, conservative towns to the west, the sort that would later be described as likely to harbor Christian militia. Representatives of both factions co-existed in our little town, though not always peacefully.
In a sense, our house was a microcosm of the town, although by that summer, the conservatives were barely represented within our walls. My grandmother had died the previous year, leaving the house to my mother, and leaving my mother as the sole inhabitant of the house’s right wing. It was the house she’d grown up in, and sometimes I imagined that I could see her becoming more like my late grandmother every day, walking in her very footsteps. Except for college and a couple years after, she’d never lived anywhere else. In those days, it was not often that I thought ahead further than the next weekend, but I distinctly recall thinking that my mother would probably die in that house.
As for my father, he was a one-time free spirit who’d long since been tethered by responsibilities, expectations, and inevitable disappointment. He’d met my mother at college, wooing her in their freshman year, I later learned, then turning his back on her for the next two years before returning to win her back during the latter part of their senior year. I’d heard him talk about it wistfully, seeking to impose a romantic spin upon the entire affair. My mother did not seem to share his sense of nostalgia.
Whether relating a tale involving my mother or any other, my father would inevitably embellish his narration with an endless series of gestures. To tie his hands would be to tape shut his mouth, so intrinsically connected were the two. It was a trait that was not passed on to me, but most definitely to Trevor. My brother was tall, already taller at fifteen than our father, and gave the impression of being all arms and legs, an impression that was only strengthened by his tendency to gesticulate wildly. His expressions and voice were likewise animated; he was a born storyteller, an ability that made him popular in the circles he traveled.
I had yet to hit a growth spurt that would take me anywhere near my brother’s altitude, and most certainly did not possess his ability to regale crowds. I was happy to simply orbit in his vicinity and bask in the spill-over attention that came with it. Unlike many older brothers—unlike nearly all the older teen-aged brothers I knew of, as a matter of fact—Trevor not only tolerated my presence, he encouraged it. I never asked him why, afraid perhaps that drawing attention to the fact might cause him to change his mind, but I think he felt that not including me would have left me a pawn at the mercy of our parents’ self-absorbed whims.
And so I trailed Trevor all about our town, through both the mundane days and the adventurous ones. Our path would often lead us to Byram Lake; to the local arcade; to the outdoor basketball courts at Harpur Park; to the abandoned farm on Ralston Road where kids would smoke homegrown in the darkened barn and explore sex in the hayloft. At other times, when seeking solitude rather than company, we would venture to the river behind our house, the cemetery on the south side of town, the water tower on the north.
It was during that summer and in the midst of those travels that Jenny was introduced to the equation. Trevor had dated or gone steady with other girls during the preceding years, but never anyone who he really allowed to become part of his life, of the important things. I was forced to shuffle aside to make room for her in Trevor’s inner circle, and at times the sensation of being a third wheel was very hurtful to me. But what else could I do but endure the changes and try to adapt? She was at least as patient in putting up with my presence; more so, in fact. She was funny and kind and possessed all the traits of a tomboy except for the looks. She was that rarest of rarities, a redhead with dark skin. Her hair color was real, or so Trevor told me conspiratorially, and her long locks flowed like lava over a body that was commonly assumed by lecherous men to belong to someone much older than fifteen. In the limited time we had together that year, the three of us settled into a comfortable pattern.
In fact, that summer and fall were filled with the best times I ever had with Trevor; right up to Halloween. The culmination of this story, of course, occurs on Halloween. That’s why it’s in this book. But there were many events leading up to that night, some of which, it seems to me now, were important.
***
There is one in almost every neighborhood, rich or poor. A study by Smith College in Massachusetts estimates that three in every 10,000 people are pathologically affected.
***
It is an early evening in August, and Trevor and I are feeling slightly nauseous. We’ve eaten some mushrooms—magic mushrooms, as he calls them—crushing the paper-dry stalks and caps between our teeth, mixing them with saliva until we’re able to force the awful concoction down our throats.
I seem to be in greater distress than Trevor, fearing that my stomach will expel the whole lot at any moment.
“Hang in there, little buddy,” he says. “It’ll pass.” It is my first time, but Trevor has done ‘shrooms several times previously. He is, as always, my guide.
“You’re being awful quiet, kiddo,” he says. “Are you scared?”
“No,” I say distractedly, eyeing my shifting surroundings as if seeing them for the first time.
He will ask me the same question a few weeks later. My answer then will be very different.
But for now, the truth is that I am not scared. Nervous, perhaps, unsure what astonishing new thing will reveal itself next. Amazed, most certainly, at just how much I have not seen before, how much I have not heard. But not scared.
It is not much later, I don’t think, although time has become impossible to measure, when Jen arrives. Trevor tells me that she has taken her own dose at a pre-arranged time, about an hour earlier, synchronizing it so that we will all be peaking at the same time.
“I’m zoomin’,” she says as she walks up. “How ‘bout you guys?”
“Way past gone,” says Trevor. I just nod and smile. I have learned already that when I try to talk, the words tend to come out in a rush, careening together and tripping over each other. Sometimes, like now, it is easier just to stay silent. She nods and smiles back at me, as if she knows what I am thinking.
Trevor is up and moving, full of energy, greeting her briefly with a deep kiss and then charging off, heading back up the hill and toward the road, trusting we will follow. The setting sun backlights and shadowcasts him. He looks like an animated scarecrow striding through the uncut weeds. I stand for a few seconds just to watch, then come running after when he looks back over his shoulder questioningly. Running is like a new sensation; I have never felt so free.
“Does Lisa know we’re coming?” I hear him ask as I catch up.
“Yes, silly, I told you twice already,” says Jen, but there is no malice in her voice. Her eyes seem to be twinkling, but then, so too does everything else.
We are going to borrow a canoe from Jen’s cousin, and venture onto the river, which is swollen near to bursting from the heavy summer rains; running hard and fast, like gutter-water seeking a drain. Our parents, who have a flat-bottom fishing boat but not a canoe, would never let us go out with the river like this, if they knew. I am perhaps a little scared, I must admit, at the prospect of being carried along by those unforgiving currents, but I am also exhilarated.
I stay quiet when we arrive at Lisa’s house. Trevor has warned me to, but it wasn’t
necessary. I am too busy seeing things for the first time. Lisa is straight, or so Trevor tells me, and thus simply thinks we’ve been drinking. Concerned, she briefly attempts to dissuade us from going on the river, most especially when we all dissolve into hysterical laughter after Lisa asks, while handing us the paddles, “Are you sure you know how to use these?” and Trevor answers, “Yes, the big end goes in the water.”
Clearly against her better judgment, Lisa finally allows us to depart, watching anxiously from her parents’ dock as we cast off. I am in the back, and Trevor tells me that I need only steer for the most part, although my help may be needed at first, as we work our way upriver, saving the easy journey with the current for the return trip.
We stay away from the river’s wide middle, hoping to avoid the strongest currents. I have canoed many times before, but never with the river, nor I, in a condition like this.
The night opens up before us, forever holding promise just out of sight. Even though I know the river like the streets of my own neighborhood, I cannot escape the sensation that roaring falls await just ahead, just beyond the limits of my vision.
We work out way upriver for the better part of an hour, my muscles growing tight, but my energy never flagging. Finally, as we are about to turn back, with thick mist floating low over the water, literally putting our heads in the clouds, we hear a low, drawn-out moan. Without a word, Trevor starts paddling furiously. Jen and I join in a moment later. We all recognize it.
We reach the trestle just in time. The water is so high we have to lay flat in the canoe to squeeze beneath it. Trevor grabs onto one of the support columns and holds us in position directly below the tracks. Seconds later, the train explodes out of the mist and roars over our heads, the heat of its wheels pressing into the flesh our faces. It is the most exhilarating thing I have ever felt.
Coming back, the current is strong, driving us with a mind of its own. “Pick a point, dammit,” says Trevor, “More toward the middle, and stick to it.” I have let us drift too close to the shore, where partially-submerged trees lay in wait, seeking vengeance for their drowning against any who pass too close. Before I can steer us completely out of danger, we hear branches against the underside of the canoe, like fingernails scraping, seeking purchase. We are rocked violently and spun half-way around. Icy water leaps into the boat. Shouts erupt, and panic, but we are lucky, and jar free before we capsize. Trevor doesn’t have to tell me again—I steer us from the shallows as quickly as I can.
But the experience is enough to make me—to make all of us, I believe—feel that flirting with danger like that is something dark and secret and special. Our adrenaline is spiking overtime. I think we all wind up seeking that same kind of addictive rush again, some few weeks later, but the outcome is much different then.
***
They are almost always elderly, reclusive, distrustful, and without friends or nearby family.
***
The memories of the night on the river are many and vivid. They carry me through the long days that follow, tide me over between classroom glimpses at clock-hands that move only reluctantly. It is safe to say that school seems even more dull than normal.
Finally, the eternity passes and the next weekend arrives. I do not now what, exactly, it will hold, but my anticipation is perhaps the sweetest sensation I have known. Friday night, the varsity football team has a home game, and Trevor is going. I wheedle my parent’s permission to attend, once they receive assurance from Trevor that he will keep an eye on me. He is not as vocal or encouraging on the matter as I would expect, and seems strangely preoccupied.
It seems, in fact, that my parents are ultimately happier than Trevor, once it’s been decided that I will go along—or maybe relieved would be a better way to put it. They appear exhausted by the week’s passing, welcoming the opportunity for some quiet time by themselves, not that they will spend it together. More than likely, my mother will sink into the couch, idly flipping through magazine pages and half-watching television shows, while my father retreats to his basement study, gradually immersing himself in scotch while he works on his latest article for some faceless academic journal, an effort he clearly resents but is forced to continue. Although he attended the U of M in Ann Arbor, he has been reduced to teaching at Eastern Michigan, a poor-stepsister school located in adjacent Ypsilanti, commonly derided as “Ypsitucky.” I think he’s already abandoned the notion of moving up, and clings half-heartedly to his current rung.
And so my parents are left to their individual vices and devices when Trevor and I set off for the game on our ten-speeds in the gathering gloom. We live a couple miles out of town, in a rural neighborhood where the houses all have at least a couple acres and some, such as our parents, are situated right on the Jackson River. The first mile or so of our journey is street-lit only at intersections and so once we are out of sight of our parents’ house, Trevor pulls over to a deeply shadowed spot between two fir trees, motioning for me to follow. I don’t know what he has in store for me; I almost never do. It is a bit of a game to him, I think, making me wait to see what is behind the curtain. I don’t mind. I trust him implicitly and have never been disappointed by his little surprises.
This time, he says, “Got a bomber for us, little man,” as he produces a fat joint. When he holds it up to light, I can see that it doesn’t so much taper at the ends as it just stops. He takes a long hit, then another, shorter one, then passes it to me. The smoke smells sweet, seductive. “Top-notch sinsey,” he says as I bring it to my lips, careful not to inhale too deeply and induce a coughing jag, as I did the first couple times I smoked with him. Once we’ve had a couple hits and the joint is burning good, we get on our bikes and continue on, passing it back and forth between us as we go.
By the time we get to the game and lock our bikes, I am dreamy and detached and it’s remarkable how many things seem outrageously funny. We miss the kick-off but neither of us cares. Trevor is clearly looking for someone as we work our way through the crowd, while I, following a couple steps behind, am merely looking, taking it all in.
Trevor speeds up as we near the far end of the grandstand, and a moment later I see what he has seen—Jenny, standing with a couple of her girlfriends, smile radiant.
Eyes downcast, I am even more shy than usual—a legacy of the smoke—as they exchange their greetings. Jen can tell. She steps closer, messes with my hair, says “and how are you doin’, young Mr. Grace?” She’s grinning when I look up, and I find myself responding. I like the attention from her, but don’t like that she treats me like a kid.
I’m watching the game, trying to steal glances at her friends’ bodies between plays, when I hear Trevor say, “You wanna meet up right here, little bro’, ‘bout the middle of the fourth quarter?”
I am too stoned and surprised to respond right away. The disappointment must be etched upon my face, because he leans down and whispers to me beneath the sudden din of the crowd, “Hey, I’m sorry. I know you were expectin’ we’d hang together tonight, but…I need some time with Jen. Alone. You understand.” I can smell some kind of mint on his breath. When he steps back to gauge my reaction, I nod. He smiles, grabs my shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze and a shake. Between him and Jen, I’m feeling just this side of a human pinball.
“I knew you’d understand,” he says.
Jen’s friends are already drifting away and a moment later, Trevor and her are doing the same, arms around each other. He looks back and gives me an exaggerated wink. I try to smile for his benefit, but he has already turned away. I, too, turn away then, kicking at the dirt; I’m staring down the barrel of nearly two hours of this; two hours of solitude in the midst of many.
I’m heading for the concession stand, trying to remember how much money I brought with me, when I feel a hand on my shoulder, spinning me around.
It’s Trevor, back again and still grinning. “Look,” he says, “I know you’re bummed about this, but I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
Trevor seems to be considering something for a moment, then finally says, “You liked what we did last weekend, when we went canoeing, right?”
“Yeah,” I answer, more enthusiastic this time.
“Well look, I got an idea…Halloween’s only a couple weeks away—we’ll all go out again, like that night, only better. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah,” I say again, smiling myself now, “I do.”
“Cool,” he says, with a deal-closing nod. “Hang loose. I’ll see you in the fourth.”
He jogs off and I continue on my way to the concession stand, my mind awash with possibilities.
***
“Jesus Christ! Did you see that? It moved!”
***
After Trevor made his promise, Halloween could not come soon enough.
I don’t actually spend much time with him during the intervening period; hardly see him during waking hours. He is playing JV football and seeing a lot of Jen. I am forced to study far too much by our academic-minded parents. I feel like my brother has been taken from me, just as we were toeing the verge of whole new worlds together. Little enough is said between us that I start to wonder if he has forgotten his vow. It would not be cool to ask him, to seek reassurance, but I am sorely tempted.
