I endeavour to explain my childhood viciousness to her.
And finally I tell her, about what Uncle Price did.
"A pervert!" she cries. "My own brother!"
"Jamie's out there, somewhere, probably hurt! Dead! Fuck Uncle Price!"
She stares up at me. "Is it true, Tammy?" she asks. "Are you and Jamie..."
"Gay?!" I thunder at her, leaping to my feet. "Yes! We're gay, Mother! We're a couple of flaming faggots! Queers! Queens! Pussies! Fairies! Yeah! We're a couple of fucking queers! Who cares?!"
"Tam... I'm just asking..."
"You think Jamie's a bad person because he's gay?" I surmise with a shout. "You think I'm a bad person?"
"No." Her lips press together firmly.
"Tell the truth," I snap. "You're just like all of them. You think we're perverts."
"I love you, Tammy," she says. "I want you to be happy in life."
"I've never been happy... all my life... until Jamie," I say tiredly. "He makes me happy, Mom. I don't even recognise myself anymore, and I'm glad of it. I'm proud of it." I underscore the word "proud" and dare her to condemn me.
She says softly, "I love Jamie, you know I do. I love that kid. I'd never want harm to come to him! Don't you think I have any heart at all?" She begins to cry again.
I sit back down with her. "I'm sorry, Mom," I sulk.
"I had no idea," she sniffles. "I want you to be happy, and if Jamie makes you happy... you never could talk to me." She's disappointed.
"You're kind of a bigmouth," I say as nicely as I can. "And you're a Christian."
"What difference does that make?" she bristles.
"Well, we didn't really feel free to come to you and say, 'Hey, Mom! We love each other and we're having sex!'"
"Alright, Tammy, alright," Mom sighs.
A loud banging on our front door jolts us up. It's the police again. They've got a warrant for the house now. They look for blood, in the trash, on my bedding, in my bathroom. They remove my shoes and fail to find blood on them. They're still not convinced. "You could have burned whatever clothes or shoes you wore last night," says Howard, "To get rid of the blood.
"I'm wearing the same shoes I always wear," I bark at him. "And the clothes I wore yesterday were in the hamper you searched!"
As they raid my bedroom, they ignore the black rectangle hanging out of my VCR like a tongue, seeing no cause to collect it. A man in a dark coat comes out of my room, his arms full of marble note pads.
He's unearthed my journals.
For a few minutes, Officer Cantrell and the man in the dark coat flip through them.
Mom says angrily, "I've told you officers, my son didn't hurt that young man. Why aren't you out looking for him?!"
"We've got lots of people looking for Mr. Pearce right now, Ma'am," Howard assures her.
"They have a wonderful relationship," she says, trying to be helpful.
"Hmmm..." Cantrell says thoughtfully, not taking his eyes off the violence scrawled across the lined paper. "How about his relationship with you? What's that like now?"
"Much better than when he was a boy," Mom answers. "Officers, please! I know Tammy didn't do this. Maybe he was angry as a child, but he's changed. He's not a violent man."
"I disagree," Cantrell says. "And we're thinking Mr. Mattheis is the perpetrator."
"Why?!" cries Mom.
"Because," says Officer Howard, "A: he's the last person to have seen Mr. Pearce alive. Several witnesses saw Mr. Mattheis dragging Mr. Pearce out of the End bar last night."
"Including me!" Cantrell interrupts. "I was there. I saw him do it too."
Officer Howard turns to his partner, looks embarrassed. "You never mentioned that before, Steve."
Cantrell shrugs a little sheepishly. "Yeah. I was there. I saw."
"We'll talk later," Howard continues, unruffled. "B: Mr. Mattheis hasn't been very forthcoming during our investigation. We believe he knows where Mr. Pearce is, and isn't cooperating."
"I do not know where Jamie is!" I shriek.
"We have no direct evidence incriminating you at this moment," Howard says, nodding at me. "But when we find Mr. Pearce, we think everything will fit together quite nicely. A lovers' quarrel, a crime of passion. The evidence we found in Mr. Pearce's car indicates that he's been attacked. We found blood, tears and saliva."
He's so cold.
Jamie is out there, hurt, dying.
Blood, tears, saliva.
He bled, cried, drooled all over the backseat of his car.
Someone took him somewhere and hurt him.
He must have been so terrified. My chest seizes. I wonder if I'm still too young for a heart attack.
I should have gone with him. I should have insisted.
He must have felt so alone.
This bastard is cold as ice.
I can feel my stomach turning itself inside-out again. "Someone's done something horrible to him," I sob wretchedly.
"C: these journals are rather revealing into your character, Mr. Mattheis."
My saliva thickens. I feel the retches building. My stomach is tender. "I wrote those a long time ago. I'm not like that anymore."
"We're eager to discuss them with you."
I'm driven back to the station in a squad car. They don't handcuff me, but the looks they give me immobilise me like Pavulon. Mom follows in her car, wiping her glasses with her fingers as tears splatter the inner lenses.
It's about one o'clock.
A faint odour of puke from when I was here a few hours ago lingers in the interrogation room. Cantrell has been taken off the case, replaced by Officer Lord, Howard says. "We didn't know he'd been at The End last evening. He's likely to be a witness for the prosecution if the D.A. decides she has a case against you."
"I didn't hurt Jamie," I maintain, by now utterly done in by today's horrific turn of events. I want to kick everyone aside, bash all the doors down, and run, run, out into the open, and scream into the sky.
In the grey room, Officer Howard reads aloud three stories from my anthology of gore. The anger is candid, the hatred is authentic. Still, the macabre tales are those of a boy who no longer lives on this earth.
It doesn't matter to Officers Howard and Lord, who now gaze at me with repulsed, fascinated disdain.
It doesn't matter, even after I regurgitate swallowed saliva in the middle of the third story and beg, through sickened, sobbing hiccups, for Howard to stop reading.
thirty-six:
jamie
(december 29 and 30)
For brief moments, I return to my flesh, regain my mortal lucidity, able to employ the organic matter between my ears. I attempt to raise from the position they left me in, try to fold my legs under me and lift my body up, but a huge, stabbing sensation along my left side steals my breath and sends me sagging against the orange tree again. I'm in such misery I can't even pant for air. The spirit is willing, but the physical strength is bleeding out of me in a warm gush. My strength, my bodily warmth, desert me slowly and surely.
As when I was alone in that dungeon my birth parents bequeathed to me, time has no meaning. I have no knowledge at all how many minutes, hours, or even days, might be passing as I sit, my body broken, smaller than I realised, my shoulders slumped forward, my head bowed over my chest, my legs curled beneath me.
God, please let me live. Let me live. If you're a loving and merciful God, please let me live through this. Let somebody find me and help me. Don't let me die here alone.
The night is long and cold. My bodily fluids have slowed to a crawl within me. Slothful tears are frozen along the arcs of my cheeks. I no longer see my breath misting before me. My wounded head, once throbbing hotly, is slowly, gently pulsing under the matted tangle of my hair and a thin layer of red ice. I watch myself languishing, longing to join my foster dad, but reluctant to leave Tammy behind. Cold condensation accumulates over every inch of skin uncovered by clothing.
He loves me. I know he does. I used to go on and
on how if he broke my heart I'd die. If he loses me like this, he won't get over it. He won't. It will kill him.
Lloyd's here.
I'm sorry I never called you 'Dad', I tell him. I just never wanted to call you what I called that evil man who raped me. I never wanted to associate you with him, in any way.
He stands before me, the only anything I can see in this leafy darkness. He's healthy again, olive-skinned, shaggy-haired, quietly handsome, the way I remember him best. I know, son.
I never kissed you—at least not that often—I just wasn't like that, Lloyd. It isn't because I didn't love you.
I know, son, he says again, his face calm, peaceful, happy.
You know I loved you, I say. I still love you.
I know. And you know, I still love you too. Bet you didn't know that. When we die, our bodies stop, but we don't. Our love lives on.
I want to stay with you, Lloyd. I do, but... what about Tammy?
That boy loves you, Jamie, Lloyd says. I'd like you to stay with me, of course I would. I miss you.
Oh, I miss you too, Lloyd. I feel like I took you for granted all these years, and you died so suddenly. I begin to weep. I feel like I never let you know how much I loved you. I never said it enough. You saved my life, you gave me a new one, and I don't know if I ever said thank you.
You were my sunshine, Lloyd smiles. You said thank you by getting better and becoming the most wonderful son I could ever have wished for. I wasn't even worried that you were going to be a brat or a delinquent. You were my boy. I never thought about having children, Jamie, but when you came into my life, you were such a blessing to me.
I feel the same way about you. I should have said thank you every single minute, I whisper. You were my guardian angel.
And you were mine. You always took care of me after I got sick.
I didn't do enough. I should have made you go to the hospital. I should have known that morning. You needed to go in right away.
Jamie, I was a grown man. I was responsible for my health. You couldn't make me do anything I didn't want to do. Remember?
"Hey! Hey! Sir? Can you hear me?" The voice reverberates in the distance. I can sense without seeing what the man is doing. I cannot feel his hand shaking my shoulder and jostling my poor re-broken right arm. If I was there instead of up here, I would be squalling in pain. I watch from this height, as a troupe of farm labourers, having stumbled upon me while searching for frost damage, gathers around me, their hands over their mouths. One of them dials his cell phone. I can hear him weeping...
...another stranger crying for me, Lloyd. What a world we live in, huh?
Yep, says Lloyd. People who don't even know you calling 9-1-1, kids you grew up with bludgeoning you and leaving you for dead. Oh Jamie. When you get out of here, you do something with this too, just like you did when we got you out of that room they locked you in. Do something with this, son.
I will, I promise him.
My skin feels the subtle sting of settling dew.
"We found a body out here," the labourer cries. "He's dead... yeah... we're in the orange grove off Delta Road... about three miles west of Winters... just off the highway going into Vacaville... I don't know... no the body is fresh... it hasn't been long... maybe yesterday... yeah... fuck, it's a mess..." he sniffles loudly. The other men are crying too.
I love you so much, Lloyd. I'm telling you that right now. Always know I love you.
I do know, son. I do know. But I don't want you to leave Tammy behind. I'm worried about him. He won't stand it if you die.
I know.
Go on back to him, Jamie.
I'm watching, floating someplace above, as policemen in dark blue uniforms kneel and inspect me. I'm still leaning against the orange tree where Ray and the others dumped me. Under the shredded black trash bag Ray half-covered me with, I'm wearing my dark teal scrub top over my white pullover turtleneck, stained dark red. My left arm is folded against my chest. My broken right lays limp, flush, against my thigh. I'm still in a wacky sitting/kneeling position. My legs are twisted beneath me where I tried to stand and fell back. My shoulders are slack, my head slumps forward, my reddened, sticky, spiky hair in my eyes. One of the cops gently lifts my head up. "Shit," he swears into his walkie-talkie. "I think it's the guy from Sommerville alright. He's dressed like a nurse."
"Is he dead?" another cop asks from inside the walkie-talkie.
"I'm pretty sure." He pushes the fabric aside and feels for a pulse in my neck.
He stops cold, his fingers swiping up and down my skin. "Sweating! I've got a weak pulse too! Let's move!"
Two other policemen are talking, indicating the bloody, misshapen towel rod that Ray used to beat me with. Another officer points at the rag they crammed down my mouth.
I'm with Lloyd again. How do I get out of here?! I ask him in a bursting of panic. It's so dark! I can't see!
Feel your way, Jamie, he says. Feel your way out. God'll show you. He'll get you back home.
Lloyd. I don't know. I've been fighting so long. I'm so cold. I don't know if I can keep holding on like this.
You've got to hold on, Jamie. You've got to. Just a little longer... just hold on...
I'm so weak, Lloyd.
I know, but this isn't your time. Not now. You stay with them. I'm going now.
Don't go, Lloyd! Don't leave me!
They're here now, son. They're going to get you through this. Just hang on.
I love you. You were my dad. You were always my dad. You're my family. You're my friend. You're very important to me, Lloyd. Always know that.
Hold on, son. Just hold on.
I'm lingering here, still watching, as they gently position my neck into a brace. They place me on a stretcher, load me into the ambulance. I hover above them, watching as they pierce my arms and the fluids begin to dribble into my shrivelled veins. They shout at me, shake me as gently as they can in their urgency. My left hand falls open a little, and I see my angel keychain, sticking to the centre of my palm, glued with my blood. Oh, shit, it's gonna fall onto the floor of the ambulance and get kicked around and lost forever. Please, oh, God, please don't let them lose my angel!
One of the paramedics then takes it from my hand and carefully slips it into a ziplock baggie.
Please, don't lose it, please...
My ears begin to ring again. I can't hear.
"He's crashing!"
They get the paddles lubed and ready. I recognise that chaotic green electronic zigzag as v-fib. They shock me. Zap! I feel it, even up here... painful... my heart lurches... sputters... dies again. Zap! Now I'm in v-tach. Zap! I'm in sinus rhythm, but it's very tachy, about 170.
I'm back, and I'm displeased. Not only am I in the worst pain of my life, but I'm not floating up above myself. I'm no longer free and weightless. I'm strapped to this damn stretcher.
I'm enraged.
I'm tied to a bed again.
Lloyd, I think I'd rather have stayed with you.
Then I remember.
Tammy's waiting.
I have to do this.
It hurts like hell, but I have to.
I have to...
thirty-seven:
tammy
(december 30)
I'm slowly taken apart, dissected, deconstructed, examined, studied, like a frog in biology class is scrutinised by a sadistic teacher and his little pupils.
It was about 10am when Jamie was found by a bunch of farm workers in an orange grove near Winters, which is about fifteen miles west of Sommerville. At first, he was taken to the hospital in Woodland, but when they deduced that he needed more care than they were equipped to give him, he was hastily flown to UC Davis.
It is now about 2pm. I've been held as a suspect and questioned now for only a little over an hour, but my ordeal has been going on since five-thirty this morning. Nobody will tell me anything, whether he's alive, dead, or hacked to pieces in the black garbage bag I keep hearing about.
Stacy refuses to
leave the station, determined to find out the truth. She also refuses to speak to me, until I ask where Jamie is, then she shrieks at me from her side of the tinted glass, "You're not going anywhere near him, you bastard!"
The cops leave me alone again. They're gone for almost another hour, and when they return, they regard me with burning hatred. Officer Lord shakes his head at me. "Why would you do that to him? You're twice as big as he is! If I could just get you alone, you piece of shit! You rotten fucking coward!"
"No! I didn't!" I sob as I pace the interrogation room, wringing my hands, crying, crazy and exhausted, long past the point of a psychotic break. "Please, is he alive? Is he dead? Is he injured? What's happened?!"
"Why don't you tell us what happened?" Officer Howard asks icily. "The sooner you fess up, the sooner we'll be done. I'll bet you could use some sleep. Let me guess. He got too needy for you? I've heard tell you don't like long term engagements."
Lord snickers bitterly and adds: "You had quite a reputation in high school, from what I remember. I was a sophomore when you were a senior."
"No! It was nothing like that. I love him."
"I have a scenario, and I want you to tell me if I'm close," Howard says. "You got sick of him being clingy and jealous and needy, so you told him you needed to talk to him alone, somewhere private..."
"We talked at his house," I say, and Howard shushes me, "Whoa... whoa, wait, let me just finish this first. And you had him follow you out to Winters, to a nice, quiet, private road where nobody would bother you. Maybe you two talked, maybe you didn't, but I think you sucker-punched him and knocked him into the backseat of his car. His nose bled, and he cried and asked you to stop. You really gave him a good one too, I must say." Howard scowls at me. "His lip was split—probably why we found drool all over the seat."
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