"Gus and his buddies," I say.
The cop and my gym teacher look at each other.
"Did you bring this in to hurt one of them?" the cop asks, his nostrils flaring.
I want to flare mine back at him, but can't. "No. That's not my gun."
"You were suspended from your last high school for drinking."
The principal has done her homework.
"That's a lot different from carrying a gun to school."
For a few more minutes, they continue to drill me.
And I continue to say the following: "That is not my gun."
Finally my mother comes in, her eyes red and swollen. Sad to say, I can't tell if it's from being upset or being hung over. She gives me a hug, then stares at the other adults in the room. "What is going on here?"
"Mrs. Buckley, we received three different reports this morning from students who said they saw your son bring in a gun and put it in his locker."
"That's a lie," Mom says to Miss Harking.
"Have you ever seen this gun?" the cop asks.
"Of course not. Are you seriously saying Chris brought this in?"
"I didn't," I say.
"I know that. What proof do you have? Who said this?"
"We have three different sources-"
"Three? Where are they? Get them in here right now. I can tell you one thing. That gun doesn't belong to my son."
"There's going to be an investigation so we can find out if it does."
My mother curses in a way that both shocks me and makes me want to high-five her. She grabs me by the arm. "You're not doing anything with my son. He's not going anywhere with any of you."
"Ms. Buckley, there are certain procedures we have to follow-" the cop begins.
I would bet big money my mother could take him. She's not big, but she's scrappy.
"Your son has had some run-ins with some of his classmates."
Mom stares at me, then looks back at tie guy. "Run-ins? Like how? He's a new kid who sticks out like a sore thumb. Or should I say he's like the normal thumb on a sick hand. When do new students come in and make trouble?"
"It's happened before," the principal says.
"Well, it's not happening here. I can guarantee you that that gun is not my son's."
"But we have to-"
"You listen to me," my mother says, aiming her finger at the cop. "Chris's grandfather was shot when I was eighteen years old and not even out of high school. Shot with a random gun in a random shooting. Chris didn't tell you that, did he? He didn't tell you that he's vowed never to touch a gun, ever. Ever."
"Please, Ms. Buckley."
"No," Mom says. She grabs me just like Tie Guy did earlier.
I want to cry out that I'm not some animal who needs to be pulled around on a leash.
"You do whatever you must, but Chris is coming with me. You have a problem with this, I'll call my lawyer. You touch my son and I'll sue every one of you, and you'll end up on an NBC primetime special on the abuse of power in a hick town."
My mother storms out, still holding onto my arm. I walk with her in silence, bewildered and stunned.
We get into the car and she turns to me, red faced and breathless. "You look at me right now and swear, Chris, you swear that-"
"Mom, stop."
"Just tell me."
"It wasn't my gun. I swear."
"Then whose was it?" She pulls the car into reverse and almost rams a car behind us as she veers out of the parking lot.
"I have no idea."
But on second thought, I do have an idea.
It's an ugly idea, with an ugly face attached to it.
"Are you in trouble?"
"No."
"I mean with some other kids."
"No. I'm fine. Just typical high school stuff. Bullies."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"There's nothing to tell."
We drive for a few minutes, my mother seeming to realize finally that she's not a superhero. I can see her deflating.
"Thanks," I say.
She grabs my hand. "They're not going to touch you. Nobody's going to touch you."
"Because of your lawyer?"
Mom looks at me and can't help the smile forming on her lips. "Like that one?"
"Yeah. I had to keep from laughing."
"I'd call him. If you were in trouble, I'd call him."
"Really? And you think Dad would actually help me out?"
"He'd help out if I called him," Mom says. "But he's the absolute last resort. Besides, there's nothing to call him about. That wasn't your gun."
"Yeah, but it was someone's. And whoever put it in my locker did it to get me in trouble."
The email goes like this:
HEY, JOCELYN. SORRY ABOUT THE WHOLE EXCHANGE AT LUNCH. DID RACHEL TELL YOU ABOUT THE NOTE?
Her reply is short and sweet:
YES. LOOK-I'M THE ONE WHO IS SORRY. I FEEL LIKE AN IDIOT. CAN I MAKE IT UP TO YOU? PICK YOU UP IN THE MORNING ON THE WAY TO SCHOOL?
The imaginary email.
Her imaginary reply.
I think of what it'd be like to have email or an Internet connection.
Maybe I should be thinking of something else, like how it's going to be back at school now that I'm known as a gun-toting gangster. But instead I think back to Jocelyn, about the conversation and misunderstanding at lunch. I think back to what Rachel told me and how I was looking forward to seeing Jocelyn during history class.
I never had a chance.
Life's all about chances.
Maybe I'm a little too young to fully appreciate this, but that's what it's about.
Chances.
And the element therein.
Dad used to tell me-well, tell isn't actually right, it was more like preach to me-that there was no such thing in this life as chance. That God controlled everything.
I wanted to say, "Yeah, well, if that's the case, Pops, then why did God put you and Mom together?"
I think it's easier not believing in God, knowing that Dad does.
It's easier to pick a side.
Chance.
That's what I believe in. That's the team I'm on.
The random fateful chance that some guy comes across a grandfather I'll never know and puts two slugs into him.
The random fateful chance that one day I'll be accused of having a gun in my locker.
I'm full of questions. Were there rounds in it? Where did their investigation lead? Why haven't they called?
Most importantly, what's going on with Jocelyn?
I'm listening to the second side of an album by Love and Rockets. Strange stuff. I want to use the word psychedelic for it. It's like rock for creepy people.
I kinda like it.
I don't have the volume high.
I wish tomorrow would come. I wish I could talk to Jocelyn right now.
I think of ten thousand things to say.
I know that by tomorrow morning, I probably won't say any of them.
Mom is dressed with her makeup already done and coffee in hand.
Usually I'm the one making her coffee, sometimes leaving for school without even hearing her stir.
"You taking me to school?"
Mom shakes her head. "I talked with the principal last night."
"And?"
"You're staying home today."
"They still think-"
"No," she says, stopping at the kitchen counter and directing her gaze toward me. "At least the principal doesn't think it was your gun. But they still need to talk to some kids, look into it. She said it would be better if you stayed home."
I sigh.
If this gets out, even if they find out it wasn't my gun, I'll be labeled as a troublemaker. Some freak.
Even more than a new student already is.
"We're going to see your Aunt Alice today."
I hear a rumble of thunder. "Any particular reason why today?"
"We should have gone last weekend."
I
almost say, "Yeah, that's what I thought too, but you couldn't get off the couch."
Instead, I just ask, "What if the school calls?"
"They can leave a message."
I look at the box of cereal. It's some generic version of Cheerios, as if you could get any plainer than that. I pour some into a bowl and find the milk.
"Are you going to take a shower?"
"Think Aunt Alice is going to care?" I ask.
"I will."
With a mouth full of soggy cardboard bits, I nod and mumble that I'll be ready in just a few minutes.
The only place the directions seem to be getting my mother is lost.
The glaze of rain coming down sure doesn't help. It feels like we're driving in the gray of clouds, turning down a wandering rocky road without a name only to have to back up and go miles over the same ground. We've been driving for half an hour.
"So Aunt Alice is your mother's sister?"
Yes.
"Do you remember her?"
"A little. She was younger than my mother. I remember her at the funeral. She was a wreck."
"And nothing over the years?"
Mom shakes her head, squinting to see the messy scribbles of her own handwriting on the sheet of paper. "A card every now and then. I've spoken with her on the phone a few times. The last being just a month ago."
"How'd she sound?"
"Well, she gave me these directions. Which make about as much sense as she did." Mom puts the piece of paper in her lap and keeps driving.
"She ever marry?"
"No."
The no sounds like "not in a million years." Like Aunt Alice couldn't marry, like she has one arm and horns sticking out of her head and she talks in tongues. Or maybe has several tongues to talk with.
"My mother's death really had an impact on our small family. There were just the two of them-the two girls. Aunt Alice just-she never recovered."
"And she's the only family member around here?"
"There are several from the Kinner side of the family, my father's family. He had a couple of brothers, and I think their families are still in the area, though they'd only be cousins. I lost touch with them."
Without the directions in hand, it seems that Mom does a better job navigating. We drive down a dirt road and come to a small side road with a crooked old tin mailbox at the end of it. The numbers say it belongs to Aunt Alice. The driveway, if you can call it that, wanders way back into the woods. Our car passes over ruts in the muddy road, ruts that are turning soft and gooey like warm fudge. We eventually come to a one-story house that looks as though it's on its way to becoming one with the forest surrounding it.
"Seriously?"
Mom looks at me with a glance that says so much.
Be quiet, for one thing.
Get out, for another.
Mind your manners is surely in there.
And last but not least, This is freaking crazy.
Her sigh gives it away.
After several knocks on the crusted-over door with its welcome mat of dried paint chips, we hear a voice inside. We'd maybe look in the window, but it's dirty, dark like the clouds around us, unwashed for a century.
"Hello?" my mother says in a friendly tone.
"Inside," someone hollers in a not-so-friendly tone.
Mom turns the door handle, glances at me, walks in.
I start to get claustrophobic even before stepping foot inside.
If I thought that cabin I found in the woods was gross, this is something else. The smell of something rotten fills my nostrils, burning them. I don't know what death smells like, but this reeks of it. Mom turns just as I'm about to say something.
"Hello?" she calls out again.
We hear something crash in a room in the back. We're in the muted light of a living room, though it doesn't look like any kind of living to me. The glow of two windows creates shadows in the otherwise dark room. There's no light bulb lit. I half wonder if there's any power to light one.
"Aunt Alice?"
A round goblin comes out of the darkness of the hallway. At least that's what I see in my mind first, a round-faced figure hunched over, leaning on something.
As my eyes adjust, I see the woman. She's both overweight and tiny, if that makes any sense. It makes about as much sense as anything around her. She's short but round, with chunky arms and a couple of necks. By the way she moves, Alice hides half of her body.
"Aunt Alice, it's me. It's Tara."
The eyes widen. She stops, leaning on what appears to be some kind of walking stick.
"Tara?"
"It's Tara. Tara Kinner."
My mother's maiden name obviously rings a bell. I'm expecting the good ole "let me make you some biscuits and gravy" routine.
But Aunt Alice just stands there, leaning over, a scowl coming over her face. "What are you doing here?"
"Alice, I came by to see you. I want you to meet someone."
"Why did you come back?"
"Alice, this is Chris, my son."
Thanks, Mom. Great time to be introduced.
I stand like a complete lump and long for the days of simply being neglected in a classroom.
"You shouldna come back here."
Her voice is grainy, Southern to the core, almost hard to understand.
Mom looks at me.
"Hi," I say weakly.
"What do you want?" Aunt Alice asks.
I see the black outline of a crow in the corner, either a stuffed one or a carving. I swear I see its eyes blink.
Then the bird moves.
My skin and my heart move with it.
It flutters for a few minutes, then settles, having announced its presence.
If my mom is surprised or scared, she doesn't show it. "Do you mind if we stay for a few minutes?"
"This place isn't for you," Aunt Alice says, shuffling on toward the kitchen, which is separated from the living room by a half wall.
Mom points at me to sit down. I half expect to find bird poop on the chair or maybe a snake coiled up. I smile and stay standing.
Aunt Alice lights a couple of candles that make the place even creepier than before.
There's nothing in here that's pleasant.
A big frame shows a man who is as pale as a ghost with a bald head and an expression that makes me think he wants to kill the photographer. Then I notice that it's a painting.
"That's my grandfather," Mom tells me.
"Nice."
"Shhh."
Mom goes toward the kitchen. I can't help keeping my eyes on the crow that's resting on the back of a chair. It seems to be watching me.
"Don't have much around here," Aunt Alice says. "Don't get many stoppin' by."
"That's okay. We're fine. I just wanted to come by and let you know we're here."
Aunt Alice opens what appears to be an ancient refrigerator. My eyes take in more of the room.
I see a small table with a few pictures on it, some strange beads covering them, a woodcarving of an owl.
That better be a woodcarving, 'cause if that sucker suddenly hoots, I'rn outta here.
I move toward the kitchen and past an armchair; then I turn and almost pass out.
A figure is sitting in the chair.
It's a corpse.
A rotting, stinking corpse.
It's the reason this place smells so bad, and the reason that I'm so out of here.
I jerk back and hit the wall and knock down something to the ground.
"Chris."
"Mom-did you see-"
But it's not a dead body. It's a mannequin.
A dressed-up mannequin of a woman wearing pants and a jacket.
Dead eyes stare back at me.
I can just picture having a cup of coffee while sitting next to that thing. Maybe if I stay long enough, it'll start talking.
Mom keeps chatting with Aunt Alice while I pick up the framed stitching I knocked off the wall.
It's a pentagram.
I'
m not sure what side was up or down. I forget what a pentagram stands for. Upside down or not, I'm beginning to think wonderful little Aunt Alice is into some weird stuff.
She lights more candles and proceeds to sit in the chair that the crow is resting on.
I lean against the wall, telling my mom I'm fine right where I am. Away from the mannequin.
"Are you Chris?" Alice asks me.
I was beginning to believe-well, hope is the word-that she hadn't even noticed me.
"Yes, hi, hello."
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
Her eyes grow dim. Even in a chair, she slouches, as if her back is permanently bent. I see spotted, fleshy hands rub something-a clear stone that's on a chain. It looks like a triangle.
"When are you leavin'?" Aunt Alice asks Mom.
"We're here to stay."
"You can't stay around here."
"This is our home."
"No home to you, not anymore. You should know that. You should know that by now."
"How have you been?" Mom asks her, ignoring her threats and warnings.
For fifteen of the longest minutes of my life, I listen to Mom try and engage the lady in this strange, smelly house in Nowhereland. The sound of the rain hits the metallic roof. My legs are tired, but I'm still okay standing. In case I need to run out of the door for any reason. In case the mannequin sits up and starts singing "Hello, Dolly."
"This is no place for him. For a family. For young'uns."
"Have you seen my brother, Aunt Alice? Have you see Robert at all?"
"Don't know a Robert."
"Bobby?"
Aunt Alice thinks for a minute, still rubbing that rock of hers.
I see something white come out of nowhere and slip between her legs.
A cat. Some big white ball of fur.
"He was around not long ago."
"Do you know what happened to him?"
"The mouth of the beast swallowed him up," Aunt Alice says. "Just like Jonah. Just like Annie. Just like it will swallow you."
Mom seems unfazed. "Did you talk to Bobby?"
"Death surrounded him. Death hung in the air around him like a broken halo. Death chased after him."
"What happened to him, Aunt Alice? Where'd he go?"
Aunt Alice suddenly turns to me, then starts to laugh.
I see missing teeth-either that or black ones. She starts to howl with laughter.
"Hell," she says in that southern drawl. "Hell. He stopped by just before he reached hell. Just like the two of you. Just like you."
Solitary: A Novel Page 6
