Restoration

by Greg F. Gifune

  “When I see him,” I said, dismissing his statement, “he wants me to follow him. I…I think he’s trying to tell me something.”

  He took a swig of coffee and seemed to think about what I’d said for a moment. “Could these just be dreams? Nightmares you’re having?”

  Figuring there was no other way I could get an opinion out of him, I played along. “I think they might be. What if they are? Could he be trying to communicate with me?”

  “Well,” Nicky said, assuming his priest’s tone, “I’m certainly not representing the church when I say this, but I personally believe God often speaks to us through dreams.”

  The coffee was making me sick to my stomach, so I lit a cigarette and used it for an ashtray. The vision of the kid gawking at me through the window with that dead stare flashed across my mind, and I clenched shut my eyes in an attempt to ward it off. “What about the Devil?”

  “What about him?”

  “Do you believe he does the same thing?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose.” Nicky put his cup aside and crouched down next to me, a hand on my knee. “Mike, listen to me. Sometimes God tries to direct us, do you understand? Sometimes, He wants to reach us and to guide us to where we need to be. You have tremendous guilt regarding that whole…incident…but—”

  “You think I’m being punished maybe for what I did?”

  “If so, only by yourself. It was a terrible tragedy, certainly, but you didn’t intentionally shoot that child, Mike. Forgiveness is like love. In order to love others, we have to learn to also love ourselves. Well, forgiveness works on the same idea. Before you can forgive Audry for leaving you, before you can forgive that heroin addict who put you in this position in the first place, you have to learn to forgive yourself. I can tell you God has already forgiven you, Mike.”

  “You think that’s what God’s trying to tell me?”

  “Could be.” He stood up and moved his hand from my knee to my shoulder. “When you have these dreams, and the boy asks you to follow him, what do you do?”

  “Nothing, I—”

  “Maybe you ought to try following him and see where he leads you.” Nicky smiled. “After all, it’s only a dream. It can’t hurt you, Mike, but maybe it can shed some light on things for you. You need to look within is what I’m trying to tell you, and maybe these dreams will give you that opportunity. You’ve allowed this to destroy your entire life, your marriage—everything—don’t you think it’s time you stopped killing yourself over it and took a long hard look at things?”

  I dropped my cigarette into the coffee and it died with a quick hiss. “Thanks, Nicky.”

  “Just remember, Mike. Forgiveness, that’s the key.” He walked me to the door, an arm draped loosely over my shoulder. “You sure you’re all right?”

  I knew now what I had to do. “Yeah,” I said. “I’m fine, I…I just needed to talk is all.”

  “Any time. I’m always here for you, okay?”

  “Okay, Nick.”

  He gave me another hug, then looked me in the eye. “I’ll pray for you. You try it, too. Ask God to give you wisdom, direction, and He will. Get some rest, and if you think you might want to talk with a…you know, a professional, let me know, I know several good people.”

  “I’ll see you around, kid.” I opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

  “And Mike?”

  I looked back at him.

  “Lay off the bottle for a while, you hear me?”

  “Yeah,” I said, forcing a smile. “I hear you.”

  And as I left the rectory, I wondered who else was listening.

  ***

  The idea of sitting alone in my apartment was less than appealing, so I stopped at Sallie’s, had a couple drinks then forced myself to go home. If the kid showed again, I was determined to follow him.

  I choked down a sandwich, sat in my recliner, and waited. Dusk was settling over the city, and the neighborhood was quiet. Half an hour later nothing had happened, and I began to wonder if Nicky was right. Maybe the booze was to blame; maybe the whole thing had been a bad dream. I switched on my radio and settled deeper into the recliner, figuring I’d ride the night out.

  “Okay, open lines tonight,” the host said. “Let’s go to line one, and Jaamal. What’s on your mind, Jaamal?”

  I sat forward, staring at the radio.

  “I know where he is,” said a small voice, a boy’s voice.

  “You hear that, Mike?” the host said. “He knows where he is.”

  Lurching forward, I switched off the radio, my heart pounding. My eyes shifted to the window. Nothing. I swallowed so hard it was audible, and reached for the knob with a trembling hand. Static.

  I pushed myself out of the chair, grabbed my key ring from the bureau, then staggered to the closet. The lock box held three guns, but my eyes immediately focused on the 9mm. I found a full clip and slammed it home.

  The static broke, several stations battling for the position on the dial, voices coming and going interspersed with occasional music. And then, that same tiny voice. I know where he is.

  I slid the gun into my belt and concealed it with my shirttails. A thin film of sweat had covered every inch of me, and I blinked a bead from my eyes as I approached the radio. I switched it off and looked around, my eyes sweeping the ceiling, the floors, and each corner of the apartment. “Show me.”

  Minutes later I was on the street, walking, roaming, looking for any sign of the kid. I moved through the neighborhood, then left it behind and headed into Chinatown, suddenly feeling as if I knew exactly where I was headed.

  Once I’d left the bright lights of Chinatown, I found myself on a corner near the state highway. The neighborhood was desolate, the streets littered mostly with abandoned buildings. I held my ground, lit a cigarette.

  And then, on the porch of a burned out two-story tenement, I saw him. Our eyes met and I offered a subtle nod. The kid leaned his bicycle against the front wall, stepped through the archway that had once been the front door, then looked back at me.

  I felt myself moving across the street, as if I no longer had complete control over myself. Night had come, bringing with it uncertainty mixed with a steady cool breeze.

  By the time I’d climbed the rotting steps, the kid had already slipped inside. I forced my hand to the gun, pulled it free, and moved over a pile of rubble and garbage. I was greeted with impenetrable darkness and an array of gut-wrenching smells. I fumbled for my lighter with my free hand, and traced what little light the flickering flame provided. Graffiti covered the walls and the floors were thick with debris. A faint scratching, then scurrying noise I recognized as rats momentarily distracted me, so I swept the flame around. Down a narrow hallway I saw a small glint of light but no sign of the boy.

  The lighter had started to burn my fingers, so I shut it off, dropped it back into my pocket and carefully crossed the room, following the light at the end of the hallway. It led to another room that was in even worse shape. I stopped in what was left of the doorway, saw a single candle burning on an overturned milk crate, a filthy mattress tossed against one wall, garbage strewn from one corner to the next, and the unmistakable stench of human waste.

  I moved into the room. A dark form was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, a dirty syringe, spent book of matches and a blackened spoon scattered across its lap. My eyes shifted; I saw the boy standing in the far corner, sad eyes staring at me.

  Sinking deeper into madness, I closed the gap between myself and the man on the floor. His head lolled to the side, eyes glazed as a trickle of drool spilled from his mouth and dangled from his bottom lip. He was a bit older than I remembered, a lot closer to death, emaciated and grisly. But it was him. That face had never left me.

  “What do you want?” he mumbled, eyes trying desperately to focus.

  “Do you know me?” I asked.

  “Get the fuck outta here, this is my place.”

  I reached out with the gun, placed the barrel u
nder his chin and lifted his head. “You ruined my life.”

  “Shit,” the man muttered, his body stiffening as the realization hit him. “I-I—look, man, I—Jesus, Jesus, I—”

  I stole a quick glance at the boy, who was still staring at me from the corner of the room. For the first time his stoic face revealed emotion, but it wasn’t what I’d expected. His eyes were trying to tell me something.

  The man shifted his position, startling me, and I quickly returned my attention to him, pressing the 9mm harder against his cheek. “Don’t you fucking move, you piece of shit.”

  “O-Okay, man, okay, just—just don’t—come on, man, please, please!”

  Standing there, my knees shaking but my gun hand disturbingly steady, a stream of disjointed images flashed through my mind’s eye. Like a movie running from start to finish—the night I chased him, to the shot striking Jaamal, to Audry and the kids leaving me, the investigation, the accusations, the madness, all the goddamn madness—images blending together, bursting through me like rapid and violent explosions.

  “Do you know me?” I asked him again.

  “No,” he cried.

  “You’re lying.”

  “No, man, I—”

  I jammed the barrel at his lips, confusion and fear slowly giving way to rage. “Open wide, motherfucker.” His body bucking as he cried, the man complied, and I pushed the gun into his mouth until he gagged, his eyes tearing and bulging. “You killed that kid as much as I did.”

  The addict’s eyes bounced back and forth, straining to see as much of the dimly lit room as he could. They returned to me, puzzlement now accompanying his terror.

  I looked in the corner. The boy was still there, his dark eyes brimming with tears.

  So much pain, so much horror.

  I jammed the 9mm deeper and the man gagged again. “Say my name.” He stared at me, glistening orbs pleading, chest heaving with each labored breath. “Michael DeStefano. Fucking say it.” He said something unintelligible, choking on the barrel. “Jaamal Thompson,” I said. “Say it.”

  He was trying when I pulled the trigger.

  The discharge was deafening in such a small room, but it was the blood and bits of skull and brain matter spraying the wall behind him, the floor, and both of us that held my attention. His body slumped and fell as I blinked his blood from my eyes, and wiped a spattering of it from my face with the back of my hand.

  I staggered back a bit, the world turning foggy, reality oddly pliant. My hands began to shake as I understood what I’d done, and I turned to the boy, looking for some sign, some answer or recognition that I had done the right thing. But he was gone.

  Bile exploded from my gut up into the back of my throat. I vomited down the front of me and struggled to remain on my feet. The candle flickered, sending dancing shadows and quick patches of light across the walls.

  Written in the man’s blood behind his destroyed body was a single word: No.

  Words, voices, something gnawing at my brain, fighting to break free from the sudden bedlam raging through my mind…Nicky…Nicky.

  Just remember, Mike. Forgiveness, that’s the key.

  My question had been answered. I was damned—I had damned myself—making the wrong decision again. The boy had led me here for noble purposes, healing purposes for us all—and I had used it for revenge, an outlet for my wrath.

  “Jaamal?” I called. “Jaamal?”

  I was alone with the dead man, and I knew that now. I raised the gun to my temple, closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. Click.

  Crying uncontrollably, I pressed it harder against the side of my head, and with mindless repetition, pulled the trigger again and again.

  ***

  I stood in the back of the church, watching Nicky as he lit a candle, knelt before the altar and bowed his head in prayer. Beneath the mournful gaze of faces etched in stained glass, the rows of empty pews seemed fitting somehow. I knew I didn’t belong there, had no right there, but I needed to see my brother, even in all this pain; I needed to see him one more time. I could see him whenever I wanted to, but I knew now it wouldn’t be right. There was no reason to put him through that, and besides, I’d already made enough bad decisions. It was time to move on, and, for those of us who still could, to heal.

  Nicky’s tears, his lips moving in silent, desperate prayer, were too much for me to handle. I glanced down at the last pew where he’d dropped the newspaper just seconds before, and read the headline again.

  Former Cop and Homeless Man Found Dead in Apparent Murder/Suicide.

  Once outside, standing on the granite steps, I took one last look at the neighborhood. Across the street I saw the boy, sitting atop his bicycle. As in life, we were on different sides of the street. He offered a timid wave, and I returned it, knowing this would be the last time I’d see him as well.

  I nodded to those gathered at the bottom of the church steps, those waiting for me with their piercing black stares and unholy smiles. Those like me—like what I had become—no longer a helpless voyeur peering into the world behind what others perceived as reality, rather an active participant in it.

  Only a phantom at the edge of darkness now, slipping past the shadows in the back of your mind, perhaps beckoning, perhaps not, seeking acknowledgement…forgiveness…restoration, I descended the steps and moved into the welcoming arms of the damned.

  The Bleeding Season (Excerpt)

  CHAPTER 1

  I didn’t know it then, but it was impossible to survive the darkest corners of his mind without first surviving the darkest corners of my own. I was headed for the same depths of Hell he had descended to, and though we passed through those flames for different reasons, our journeys are forever entwined. His story cannot be told without also telling mine, and maybe that’s the way it should be. After all, Goodness is a state of grace.

  Evil, is a state of mind.

  * * *

  There was a sudden intrusion to the darkness. A brief orange glimmer and the quiet hiss of a lit match faded quickly, leaving behind the scent of sulfur and a single burning ember like a dot on an otherwise murky horizon. I looked back at the silhouette on the bed, the cigarette dangling from her lips; fingers of smoke circling, caressing, and wondered if perhaps this time there was good reason to fear the dark.

  Tired and still disoriented, I turned from her and attempted to focus the whirlwind of thoughts blurring my mind…

  I guess I thought we’d be friends forever. Even then, it still seemed that way, like we were all joined at the cosmic hip, like somehow our lives existed as extensions or offshoots of one another. Whether we wanted them to or not.

  Originally there had been five of us. Tommy was killed early on in high school. We’d hopped off the bus, not paying any attention as we walked into the road. The woman who hit Tommy later claimed she hadn’t seen the flashing lights and the stop sign on the side of the bus. One minute we were talking and laughing, the next there was a dull thud so unnatural that it didn’t register until I saw Tommy fly into the air, suspended in space while the car rushed past, so close I thought for a split-second it had struck me too. And then I staggered back as the body twisted and turned like some gymnast in the throes of demonic possession, the car screeching to a halt in time for Tommy to land against the hood. The braking motion launched him back into midair, a human cannonball soaring soundlessly above the ground, finally cart-wheeling across asphalt, his head striking, neck bending at an impossible angle, body tumbling and flopping about as if boneless, set to the chorus of flesh slapping pavement.

  Life support kept his body alive for two days following the incident, but I knew Tommy was dead the moment he came to rest along the side of the road. Those quiet eyes staring blankly at a curiously beautiful sky, a trickle of blood seeping free from somewhere above his blond hairline, the deep crimson just one more contrast painting a face even then frozen in a knowing smirk.

  Tommy died the same way he’d lived, like nothing was worth taking too seriously
, like maybe you had all the time in the world, or maybe, just around the corner, your time was up. Like in the end none of it really mattered anyway. Ironically, there had always been something undeniably spiritual about him, like he’d been told something the rest of us hadn’t, and had then been sworn to secrecy.

  Years later, even though life moved forward, as it always does, those visions—pictures of his face that day, of a casket draped in white carried to and placed before an altar of polished wood and sparkling gold—never left me.

  I never mentioned to anyone that within days of Tommy’s death I began to feel his presence all around me. Maybe it was survivor guilt; maybe it was Tommy saying goodbye the only way he could. Maybe it was all in my head. Regardless, Tommy’s death served as a milestone in our lives. We went our separate ways for a while, like most people do once high school ends and real life begins. Bernard joined the Marines, Donald went to college, Rick wound up in prison, and I married my high school sweetheart. But within a year Bernard was home from the Marines, having badly injured his knee in an ill-timed drop from a training platform, and had a job selling cars. Rick had served his time on an assault and battery conviction; Donald had dropped out of college, and I was already working the same low-paying security guard job I’d held since not long after graduation. What had been a bunch of inseparable high school kids had become a group of young men struggling with the past, the present, and whatever the future had planned. Through good, bad, and the often-indifferent detachment tedium breeds, we remained close.

  When I married Toni, Donald was my best man and Bernard and Rick served as ushers. That was the closest the three of them ever got to another wedding. Although Rick lived with one of his girlfriends for a few years, he found it impossible to remain faithful, and the relationship eventually dissolved. The others remained bachelors. Marriage wasn’t in the cards for Donald, and Bernard had never had much success with the opposite sex. He’d always been aloof when it came to his social life beyond our group, and although he often spoke of conquests we never actually saw any of them, and tended to write his stories off as just that. He lived at home with his mother until her death, and the bank had foreclosed on the property not long after. Bernard became detached and horribly depressed. He moved into the cellar apartment of his cousin’s house in New Bedford, about half an hour away, and due to the distance and Bernard’s increasingly dejected behavior, we began to see less and less of him.