The one thing he was now certain of after his conversation with Ken was that there was something dreadfully wrong going on in Gethsemane. That was apparent. He didn’t know why he didn’t see it before. Why it took a conversation with a relative stranger to make him realize it. How could he have missed the obvious signs? Four kids had killed themselves. How could he, just like the rest of the residents in Gethsemane, smirk and think, “Imagine that. Ain’t that strange?” He couldn’t resist the bone feeling that the suicides were not over. When would they affect him?
What if Steven killed himself? That was a question he kept coming back to. What if Steven killed himself? How could he live with himself if that happened? How would he cope with that, especially if he had even the slightest feeling he had ignored a situation that was drastically wrong?
The boy was obviously depressed. He had every reason in the world to be depressed. Connor himself, being depressed ever since he had met the whirlwind of a woman that was Steven’s mother, wouldn’t have recognized the symptoms. But now, in this new light, the symptoms were there, sprawling out in front of him.
In the house now, he thought about bringing it up to Steven right away. He expected Steven to be asleep, as he usually was at this time. Surprisingly, he wasn’t asleep. He was in the kitchen making dinner and when Connor stepped into the kitchen, he saw that the boy was not depressed at all, but absolutely radiant. Like that, Connor’s suspicions of impending doom were soothed, if only temporarily.
“Dinner smells great,” Connor said.
“Steak and mashed potatoes.”
“We had steak?”
“I found it in the freezer.”
“That’s like months old.”
“If you put enough garlic on it you won’t even be able to taste the age.”
“And I’m pretty sure I bought it off the reduced-for-quick-sale rack to begin with.”
“It’ll be great. Trust me.”
“You have many years to go before I will ever trust you. The young are to naturally be regarded with great suspicion.”
“Okay. You got me. Not only is the steak bad, it’s probably poisoned. Sit down and take your medicine.”
He obediently sat in a chair at the piled-up kitchen table only . . . it wasn’t piled-up anymore. “You clean the table?”
“Well . . . I moved the contents of the table. I wouldn’t really say I cleaned it.” Steven pointed a pair of metal tongs into the corner of the kitchen where the various books, magazines, circulars, newspapers, and bill stubs were heaped.
Steven sat the plate in front of his father, went to the refrigerator and grabbed him a Rolling Rock.
“Now this is service,” Connor said. “I knew I was raising you right. So is this where you tell me that you’re gay? Or joining the service? Or, hell, both?”
“Yep, both of them. Oh, and I killed someone.”
“Just to watch them die, I hope.”
“Is there any other reason?”
Steven made his own plate and sat down across from his dad. They had a nice dinner together, making pleasant conversation. Maybe it was just a little too pleasant, like both of them had very heavy things on their minds and were trying very hard to avoid talking about those things. Connor didn’t want to be the one to bring down the mood.
One more night, he thought. One more night to think about whether or not he wanted to believe what Ken had told him, knowing he had already made a decision and this time the decision didn’t fully accord with the path of least resistance. He didn’t know if that prospect thrilled him or terrified him.
Seven
Funerals and Conversations
School let out at noon so any students interested in attending the funeral of Jeremy Liven could do so.
Steven had no plans of attending the funeral. He had no plans of any kind. Perhaps, if he had plans of one kind or another he wouldn’t have followed Elise home. Already, allowing himself to perform an act he had told himself he wouldn’t perform, made him doubt his mind. It made him doubt his thoughts. Never would he have thought he would actually follow a girl home, no matter how beautiful.
Where would it stop?
The frightening answer to that question was, I don’t know.
He didn’t know much of anything anymore.
Only, that wasn’t true. He felt like he was discovering more of himself than he ever knew existed. While he hadn’t thought he would ever follow Elise home, he now knew he would. At least that part of his psyche had now revealed itself.
Ever since waking on the night of Jeremy’s death, writing those things in his notebook, going for that walk, he felt as though he were searching out the answers to a mystery. And the next night, that strange occurrence with the clouds around the water tower, only strengthened his feelings. Maybe he could convince himself that was why he followed Elise home that day. Maybe she was part of the mystery. Maybe she fit into it somehow. Or maybe he was just using that belief to fulfill some perverse desire.
School let out, the air of depression hanging over the students once again. Some joked more than usual, their way of coping with the sadness of the whole situation, but the overall mood was a very somber one. The buses were lined up in front of the school, ready to take the unlicensed and the carless home. Another bus was headed for the Langdon Road Baptist Church, for those interested in going. There were scarce few heads on that bus, he noticed as the students filed into the yellow monstrosities. He couldn’t blame them. There weren’t many people in the high school who knew who Jeremy Liven was. But it was nice of the school to give them half the day off. It let the family know people were thinking about them. It let the family know people cared.
And he couldn’t help noticing Elise coming out of the school, head down and boarding bus number 11. It surprised him. He felt like someone like her should be able to have older friends more than eager to take her back and forth. He felt relieved. It had just dawned on him she could very possibly have a boyfriend. Certainly, if she had a boyfriend of driving age, he would take her home. But that was not the case. If Steven were a different type of person, he could have approached her and offered her a ride.
Instead, he waited in the truck, smoking a cigarette and watching as the buses filed out. It didn’t surprise him bus number 11 headed toward Green Heights. He already thought he might know exactly where the bus was going.
And maybe that was the real reason for him following her home. Not some little obsessive thing. Maybe it was something deeper. Something scarier.
The high school was situated in the middle of a vast cornfield, brown and drab before the annual crop came up. The bus didn’t stop until it reached the foot of the hill at the bottom of Green Heights. It threw out its little red stop sign and blinked its light, stopping at one of the older, nicer houses before beginning the climb up the street and into the neighborhood proper. He knew who would be getting out.
A few seconds later, Elise walked down the steps and crossed the street to her house.
Feeling like it would be impossible for her to know he was watching, he stared at her the entire way.
He grimaced. Something inside him was secretly glad to know where she lived, even if it had meant breaking the pact with himself. Another part of him, the part he felt like he was just getting to know, was terrified.
He had known where she lived ever since waking up from a jolting nightmare at around three o’clock this morning, her address scrawled in his notebook.
Now he really thought he was going crazy. He thought maybe none of this was happening at all. That he just imagined writing those things in the notebook. Maybe he had unconsciously seen her step out at 1411 Albany Lane yesterday after school. That was a perfectly feasible possibility.
Even as he thought that he knew it wasn’t true. Of course he hadn’t seen her step out of the bus yesterday. With the current state of his obsession, he didn’t think it was possible he could be within eyeshot of her and not know she was there. If he had seen her step ou
t of the bus yesterday, he would have known it. He would have immediately dedicated the address, or at least the location, to memory.
The bus pulled away and he reluctantly pulled away after it. He didn’t know why he was reluctant. He didn’t know what else he could do. Maybe hide the truck and go peep in her windows. Bust down the door and rape her. No, he didn’t want any of that stuff. He didn’t even know if his desire for her was entirely sexual. He thought it had more to do with thinking they were somehow connected. After all, he hadn’t even noticed her until that fateful night of walking.
In so many ways, that had become a night of firsts. That was the beginning to whatever mystery he currently found himself ensnared by. The notebook. The names . . . the names of the dead and the names of the clouds. Elise, so perfect and lovely there in the night. The nightmares. The water tower. Obscura (whatever that was). The clouds moving around the tower. That heart- and time-stopping hum. And now Elise’s address. And like a shadow over it all, the suicides. Even now, pulling away from Elise’s house and feeling alive with that sense of mystery, a funeral was underway at a small church out in the country.
His world had become a very strange place.
Overhead, the clouds were low and leaden, pressing down on him as he drove the few minutes to his house. He thought about that, marveling over it. A few minutes. He lived only a few minutes away from her. Why couldn’t he ever remember seeing her? That unnerved him.
He went inside and went straight to bed, hoping to get a couple hours of sleep before his dad came home. His dad had told him he wanted to spend an evening with him, maybe watch a movie or something and Steven thought that sounded like fun. Even though he was around him every day, he never really felt like he was just hanging out with the man. They were each too busy being depressed.
By the time Connor came home with spicy burritos and chips and guacamole from a Mexican place in Alton, Steven was holed up on the couch reading Charles Bukowski’s Post Office.
“Hey,” Steven said.
“Hey,” Connor said, brandishing the bag of food. “Hungry?”
“You bet.”
Connor had planned this whole evening out in his head. He wanted the boy to crack. It wasn’t anything sadistic. He just wanted to get inside Steven’s head, if only for a few minutes. Maybe it was a bit passive-aggressive but it was something he thought both he and the boy needed.
He put the food down on the floor. “You want a beer?” he asked. He figured Steven was seventeen and, if he had had any friends, would probably be drinking just about every weekend anyway. Plus, Connor didn’t think anything would make him open up better than a little alcohol in the system.
Steven looked somewhat incredulous. “Are you kidding?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t sneak them anyway.”
“Maybe once or twice. I figured you’d notice if I took any more than that.”
“Oh, I would have. And I don’t intend to make this a habit. I just figured that . . . well, hell, we’ve both been going through some really difficult shit lately. Tonight, let’s just get a little toasty and be done with it. Put some things behind us.”
Steven nodded his head. “Yeah. That sounds good. So what movie did you get?”
“Night of the Living Dead.”
Steven groaned. “That horrible eighties thing? I’ve seen parts of that. It wasn’t very good.”
“No. That was Return of the Living Dead. This is the original. Black and white. Classic.”
“Oh.”
“You’ll like it.”
Connor went into the kitchen and brought a couple of Rolling Rocks out. He flipped on the TV and they idly watched the news while they ate. Connor couldn’t stand to eat and watch movies at the same time. It obliterated the sound and, when he watched a movie, he liked there to be as few distractions as possible. Besides, it seemed appropriate for it to be completely dark outside before putting the movie on. And maybe there was just the tiniest part of him that wanted to stretch this out as long as possible. He really didn’t want to have what had built itself up in his mind as “The Conversation.” He was just a little bit afraid to have that conversation. He knew Steven. Rather, he knew Steven’s habits but realized he didn’t have a clue about his inner workings. Had no idea how Steven would react to the things he was going to tell him.
Once they had finished eating the huge burritos, Connor went to the kitchen and got them a couple more beers before putting the DVD into the player.
Steven moved up onto the couch, sprawling back and slowly sipping his beer.
Connor moved up into his easy chair.
For now, he was just going to think about the movie. It was one of his favorites and it had probably been ten years since he had actually sat down and watched it from start to finish. But he couldn’t really concentrate. The movie flashed against his eyes and bleated against his ears but his mind was elsewhere. Thinking about what Ken had told him. Thinking about what he was going to tell Steven. Thinking about how everything was going to turn out. Thinking about things he probably should have been thinking about all along.
The movie was over far too quickly.
“Another beer?” he asked Steven.
“Sure.”
Connor went back into the kitchen and returned with more beer.
He handed one to Steven and sat down in the chair. Steven sat up on the couch and Connor could tell he wanted to leave the room. He was probably eager to get back into his bedroom where he felt comfortable.
“Is anything bothering you?” Connor asked. There, he at least asked a question, taking a step toward the conversation.
Steven picked at a burgeoning hole in his jeans. “No, nothing’s bothering me.”
There was a longer than comfortable silence and Connor could tell Steven was desperately searching for something to look at, something to take his eyesight away from Connor.
“Come on, something has to bother you. You’ve been through a lot of shit. I don’t ever want you to get the impression I don’t care. I mean, I know I’m busy at work a lot of the time and when I come home I just kind of sit around and read but I want you to tell me if something’s bothering you.”
“Really, I’m okay.”
“Stevie . . . can’t you just make something up.” Connor chuckled. It sounded desperate in his ears. “I’m really trying here.”
Steven took in a deep breath. “Sometimes . . .” he trailed off.
“Sometimes what?”
“I don’t know how to say certain things. Sometimes I think if I start talking about what bothers me, I’ll never stop talking about what bothers me and if something is always bothering me then I won’t be the slightest bit happy. Like acknowledging things just busts them wide open.”
“But you have to let these things out every now and then. You have to unbottle. If you don’t then you’re just going to explode. When I was married to your mother I did the same thing. I went through every day with a smile on my face but I was burning up on the inside because I thought . . . I thought that the less I said the better. I thought that carrying on a facade of happiness was good enough but all it did was hurt everyone involved. If I would have let her know what was bothering me earlier on . . . or if I had let someone know what bothered me then maybe I could have figured out how to work through it or, hell, maybe just get out of it altogether . . . If I had done that, I think I’d be a happier person.”
“Okay. You want to know what bothers me? Just the tip of the iceberg?”
“I want to know everything.”
“Why did Mom have to die? I mean, why her? Don’t get me wrong. I like living here with you. If there was a way I could have gone to one house one day and one house the next, I would have done that. But why does she have to be gone completely? And why did it have to be so painful? Why did it have to drag on? I guess it was quick as far as cancer goes but I had to watch her die for over a year. How do you stay happy when something like that is happening? I would come home from scho
ol and she would act like everything was normal and I was expected to act like everything was normal, but it wasn’t. She was dying. That bothers me. Her dying bothers me a lot and I guess I wouldn’t be human if it didn’t bother me but I don’t think it could have come at a worse time and I’m just now starting to get used to her being dead and do you know how that makes me feel?”
“Guilty as hell?”
“That’s exactly right. Guilty as hell. I feel like there is always this part of me that has to carry around some melancholy and if I feel happy for even a second then I feel guilty.”
“You know she would have wanted you to be happy. Above all things, I think that was what she cared about the most. She probably wouldn’t mind seeing me crucified and, I don’t know, tarred and feathered or something, but I think she would want you to be happy.”
“And, deep down, I know that. But then there are all these other sad things. Like the kids killing themselves. Why does that have to happen? And it makes me feel like I’m being . . . hunted or something. If all of these kids can just pick up and kill themselves then what’s to say I’m not going to do that one day? After all, that’s why we’re having this talk, isn’t it? Because I’m a walking textbook example of a potential suicide. I’m depressed out of my skull. I sleep all the time. I don’t have any friends. I don’t have anybody to talk to and the one friend that I was able to make in that whole school had to be dragged away by his parents because his dad found some stupid job somewhere else.”
The Sorrow King Page 6
