The Pantheon

by Amy Leigh Strickland

  “If there are more of us, we should know about each other. I mean, how do you figure out what the cause is if you don’t all get together and compare stories?”

  “I’ll talk to the others,” Jason said. “For now, keep out of trouble.” He looked at his watch. He was already late to pick his daughter up from ballet. “I don’t have time today,” he said, grabbing a pen and writing a note for Teddy’s study hall teacher. “Come during your study tomorrow and we’ll talk about this, okay?”

  “Alright.” Teddy stood up and took the note. He tucked it in his pocket and watched as Jason got his car keys out of his desk drawer. “About what, I mean, about how I change water into liquor?”

  “Yeah,” Jason said slowly, “but also if you have other symptoms. Think about it tonight, okay? Anything that may have started about the time you discovered your... gift.”

  Jason rushed out the door, locking it behind Teddy. Teddy had so many questions to ask, but they would have to wait till the next day.

  Jason got into his old Buick Electra and tossed his briefcase on the seat next to him. He started the car and took a moment to breathe. Four had just jumped up to six. How many more of them were there? He was starting to suspect he was in over his head. He had no idea what to tell these kids.

  He put the car into reverse and pulled out of his spot. He’d have to mull it over more that night. Right now he had to go into Daddy mode. There was no time to drift off into thought when you had twin toddlers getting into things.

  “No enemy is worse than bad advice.”

  -Sophocles

  x.

  The smith held his hammer, above, poised to strike.

  Those standing around jeered as he wavered.

  The bearded king urged him, “It is your job.”

  The prisoner strained.

  The smith blocked out the voice as his victim cried.

  He raised his hammer to nail chains to the rock.

  He was a man of making, wielding a tool,

  instead, for destruction.

  The last point of restraint was an iron spike.

  He let the others wind a chain ‘round the rock

  and fixed the last links to the holes in the spike.

  He raised his hammer.

  With the tip of the cold iron spike sited

  over the center of the bound victim’s chest,

  he gave the end a blow that pushed ribs apart

  and sank into rock.

  Only the smith flinched at the screams of the thief.

  He dropped his hammer on the ground and left them.

  One of them whispered, “It is his best work yet.”

  He did not see who.

  “Cultivate kinsmen.”

  -Delphic Maxim

  X.

  Jason Livingstone threw a copy of The New Yorker into his briefcase along with the little red notebook he had started carrying around. It was thirty thin, lined sheets sewn into a cover made of thick, faux snakeskin cardboard and it had a number of names and notes scribbled in black fountain pen inside. He guarded the book with his life since he’d started carrying it a few weeks ago. He spun the lock on the case, grabbed his medium weight coat, and headed out into the parking lot. The busses were just pulling away.

  When Jason’s wife had been pregnant with the twins she had bought the old Buick Electra as a birthday present. Jason had spent his evenings on call for three months fixing it up and after she had passed he’d sold the practical minivan and kept the light blue Buick with the crosshair headlights. He kept it very clean and well maintained. Every morning when he left it in the school parking lot at the mercy of teen drivers, he felt like a parent leaving his child unsupervised at their first boy/girl party. It made him extra aware of everything going on in the parking lot whenever the final bell rang each day.

  The spaces on either side of his car were empty but, two spaces over on the driver’s side, a beat up silver truck on jacked-up wheels sat parked, the engine idling. Jason recognized the truck. Trevor, the boy who drove it, was a Senior and was usually the reason Jason had to bandage up countless freshmen at the start of every year with scraped elbows and bloody noses. He was a mean, tall, fat kid who was growing a very ugly and uneven beard. Jason could not pronounce his last name and therefore avoided using it.

  Trevor and his silent, scrawny sidekick Ricky Torre, had stopped in front of another student on a bicycle and Trevor had a firm grip on the handlebars. The student on the bike, Evan Fuller, looked nervous. He was short and pale and one of those kids you just felt bad for. Jason could see that Trevor and his rat-like subordinate were bullying Evan, but he also knew that sweeping in and coming to Evan’s rescue would just make Trevor and Ricky hone in on Evan later.

  He crossed to his car, keys in his hand, and stopped behind Trevor. “Trevor,” he said. He was sure the fact that he called every other student “Mr. Surname” would give away that he couldn’t say his last name, but Trevor wasn’t bright enough to catch on. “I’d really appreciate if you and your friends were careful around my car. I don’t need your bike scratching the paint.”

  Ricky Torre stepped away from Evan and toward the truck. Trevor let go of the handlebars. “Sorry, Mr. Livingstone,” Trevor said, a smirk on his lips because he thought Jason was oblivious to the fact that he’d just been harassing another student.

  “Dr. Livingstone,” Jason corrected. “If you don’t have a reason to stay after, why don’t you head home? Or to the library. You’ve probably got homework to get started on, right?”

  Trevor nodded and Evan took the opportunity to escape. “Yeah, homework,” he said. Evan Fuller had the most pimped out bicycle of anyone on the east coast. He’d added lights, power brakes, and he’d rigged an engine so that he could pedal for one minute and ride on motor power for twenty. He was great with machines. He instinctively knew how they worked. He had always liked to build things with his hands but some time in the last six months he’d hit his stride. Everything had just clicked. Suddenly, he spoke the language of creation. It was beyond knowledge; it was intuition. It was his soul.

  Evan twisted the handle of his bike and the motor purred. He started peddling, pulling away from Jason, Trevor, and Ricky Torre. Jason watched him go and once he was sure he had a good head start on the two bullies he climbed into his old Buick. Trevor and Ricky, discouraged for now, climbed up into Trevor’s truck and pulled out of the parking lot. Jason made sure they had gone out the back of the lot, away from Evan, before he started his car and headed home.

  The motor on Evan Fuller’s bike hummed along. He was only fifteen, a sophomore, so this was the closest he could get to a car. Evan’s leg protested as he began to pedal again.

  The story of Evan’s injury was a tragic one which he had no memory of. He’d been pulled from his home by social services as an infant and his real father had been charged with multiple counts of child abuse. Evan’s leg had been badly broken and untreated for weeks and his tiny body had been covered with cigarette burns. The Fuller family had adopted him as a toddler and from then on his life had been happy. The scars and the leg, however, would never heal. He walked with a limp, not unlike Coach Morin’s, and wore long pants and sleeves even in the summer.

  Evan didn’t look like his tall, blonde adoptive parents. He was short with a round face, brown hair, and blue eyes. He was funny looking. The problem was that he was “cute.” He’d always be the “cute” guy. Cute didn’t really attract a lot of girls—at least not in the way that a teenage boy hoped.

  The motor took over again and he relaxed. He was nearly home when he spotted a green 1963 Thunderbird on the side of the road with the hood open. It was beautiful.

  Evan stopped and lowered his kickstand. He walked over to offer a hand. Zach Jacobs was bent over the engine cursing emphatically.

  “Need help?” He admired the body of the car. “Is this custom paint?”

  “Yeah, it is.” Zach straightened up and looked at Evan. He hadn’t been expecting aid fro
m a short cripple on a bicycle. “Do you know anything about classic cars?”

  “Tons.” Evan ran his fingertips over the chrome trim of the car. The engine caught the sun and flashed in his eyes. “You keep her real clean.”

  “Clean doesn’t help when she won’t move.”

  “Try to start it up.” Evan checked the oil while Zach got in the car. He turned the key. Sparks, but it wouldn’t start. “Well your spark plug sounds like it works.” He closed his eyes and imagined the functions of an internal combustion engine. When he opened them he went straight for the spark plug. He came up with a wire that had been broken. “You must have mice in your garage.” The final thread of wire had finally given out. “This wire takes the spark to the fuel.”

  “That’s it? That bit of wire?” Zach stared incredulously.

  “That’s it.”

  “So how much does that cost to fix?”

  “I’ve got some of this in my garage. I could fix it.”

  Zach looked at the bike. He wasn’t going to ride on the handlebars. “How far is it?”

  “Oh, it’s the yellow cape, right there.” Evan could see his house from where he was standing. He grabbed his bike and started to walk toward his house, stepping heavily on his left leg with each stride. “C’mon.”

  Evan unlocked the side door of the two car garage. His mother’s minivan was parked in one bay. His father’s truck was out front. Evan had half of the garage to himself. Inside were a workbench and a plethora of tools. In the middle of the concrete floor was some sort of motorized vehicle Zach had never seen before. It had three, round, over-sized wheels and an old bucket seat from a car. There were more buckles and straps than were normally found on the seat of just a regular go-kart.

  “What’s that?” Zach asked, approaching it cautiously.

  “It’s an all-terrain go-kart I’m working on. I still have some additions to make on it. It needs more torque. It takes too long to get up to speed.”

  “Nice. You built it?”

  “From scratch.” Evan started opening drawers on his workbench. He finally came up with a bundle of tangled wire. “It’s in here.”

  Zach touched the leather seat of the vehicle. “Can I sit?”

  “Yeah, go ahead.” Evan searched for some wire cutters, which lead to a thunderous clatter as he rifled through another drawer.

  Zach sat down and felt enveloped in the seat. He gripped the steering wheel, which was closer to the tiller of an airplane than the wheel of a car. “You’ll have to let me drive it when it’s done.”

  “I still have to work out the speed and the steering. I need more parts, though. That’s why it has all the straps, so you don’t fall out when it flips.” Evan slapped the back of the seat. “I got your wire.”

  They walked back down the street to Zach’s car. Evan popped the hood and started fastening the wires. Zach leaned on the bumper and watched him work.

  “I never got your name,” he realized. Everyone knew who he was, but that didn’t mean it worked in reverse.

  “Evan Fuller,” he mumbled the introduction, still absorbed in his work. He was wrapping the spliced wire in green electrical tape to insulate it.

  “I’m Zach.” He didn’t need the introduction, he knew that, but assuming would be a little too pompous, even for Zach.

  “I know,” Evan straightened up. “Start her up.”

  Zach climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The old Thunderbird sparked and started. Evan tried not to look too pleased with himself. Zach jumped out of the car and clapped him on the back. “Hey, thanks man.” He moved to pound fists with Evan, but Evan held out his hand to shake. There was an awkward moment of Zach and Evan both trying to figure out what the other was doing before Zach shook his hand.

  Zach got into his car. Evan walked back to his driveway. Zach had changed gears and was ready to pull away when there was an explosion.

  In an incredible display of flames and smoke, the windows to Evan’s house blew out. Shattered glass was thrown in all directions. Evan was knocked backwards by the shockwave, his arms shielding his eyes.

  Zach turned off his car and threw the door open. Evan struggled to get to his feet before Zach got to his side.

  “You OK?” Zach asked as he helped Evan stand up straight.

  “Yeah, I think so...” Evan shook it off before realizing that his parents were still inside. “Mom! Dad!” he exclaimed. Every muscle in Zach’s body fired up. Adrenaline kicked in. He was about to do something stupid.

  Mr. Fuller stumbled out the front door, coughing and covered in ash. Blood was pouring down his neck from a gash on his jaw. “My wife is in the bedroom.” That was his cue. Zach ran into the burning house with Evan following slowly behind.

  The heat was a solid wall. The roof was collapsing in. Zach could hear a woman screaming on the other side of the rubble. He took off his Miami Dolphins jersey and wrapped it around his hands so that he wouldn’t burn himself moving hot furniture and dry wall out of the way. Evan was behind him, coughing.

  “Mom!” He didn’t think to wrap his hands and yelped when he grabbed a hot piece of the caved-in ceiling. Zach unwrapped his hands. The door to the bedroom was blocked and she was trapped.

  “Stand back!” He only gave her a moment’s notice before electricity shot from the palms of his hands. There was a flash, a crack, and the door was blasted in. Zach climbed through the new path and threw Mrs. Fuller over his shoulder.

  Evan tripped and fell on his way to the door. Zach grabbed him by the back of his collar and yanked him up off the floor. He dragged him along, out the front door, and on to the lawn.

  Mr. Fuller hugged his wife and kissed her forehead. She had latched on to Evan and wouldn’t let him go. Zach was now doubled over coughing.

  “Thank you,” Evan gasped.

  Zach nodded in response. He hadn’t thought twice about rushing into danger. It just felt like the right thing to do. Fire trucks echoed in the distance.

  Evan walked around the charred remains of the house. The garage was about the only thing that hadn’t been burned. The stairs to the back deck were still clean at the bottom. They were solid cedar and looked new, but as they ascended they blackened until they reached the deck, which was dissolved into the bones of the former structure and then into nothing. The fire had started in the kitchen and the back door to the deck opened into that room of the house.

  Firefighters were spraying and stirring the ashes to make sure the fire stayed out. The Chief was upstairs, risking his life on the rickety floor to discern the exact cause of the gas explosion. Arson was still a possibility.

  Evan’s eyes followed the banister down the deck stairs. A black handprint was on the rail. He looked closer. It was a hand-shaped burn. Another hand-sized mark was burned into the grass just on the other side of the rail. It looked as if the owner of the hand had jumped the rail and caught himself, scorching the grass.

  Evan crouched and examined the torched spot of lawn. One of the police, Lieutenant Gutierrez, saw Evan on the ground and approached.

  “You find something?”

  “Look.” He just pointed as he stood up. Evan was tired and his leg was sore. He was breathing heavily.

  Gutierrez squinted at the hand on the rail. “What the hell?”

  “What is that?” Evan asked.

  He stared for a minute in disbelief before his attention came back to the present. He looked over at Evan.

  “You been checked out by the EMT yet?”

  Evan shook his head, “They can look over Zach and my parents first.” His hands stung from the mild burn he’d received and he was having a hard time getting a breath of air. Tomorrow his fingers would feel tough, smooth, and desensitized, like he’d gotten superglue on his fingers.

  “You breathed smoke too, maybe more than your dad. And you’ve got burned hands.” The cop led Evan to the ambulance and away from the evidence. He needed Sergeant Thompson to have a look at that handprint right away.


  “Look and you will find it-- what is unsought will go undetected.”

  -Sophocles

  xi.

  She had been searching for him everywhere

  from fields to forests to meadows and mountains.

  Someone had told her he had been unfaithful.

  He had been untrue.

  She tracked the sound of laughter from a clearing.

  She had been with him for ages and knew him.

  She knew his habits and she knew that laughter.

  And so she found him.

  He was sitting on the edge of a clear pool

  with a beautiful woman next to his side.

  He had excellent taste in all his affairs

  and she was with child.

  He saw his wife staring with fire in her eyes.

  He tried to explain it away to calm her

  but she flew at his mistress and struck her head.

  She had aimed to kill.

  “Accomplish your limit.”

  -Delphic Maxim

  XI.

  Zach Jacobs rolled over in bed, still asleep. It woke June. He had come up to her room last night before her parents had gotten home from their party and he’d be out before sunrise-- before her father woke up. Until dawn they’d pretend like they were already adults, married and on their own. June tried to curl up against him and sleep again but the dream was trickling back to her. Zach had gotten another girl pregnant. June had killed her.

  She sat up and pulled the sheet to cover her body. June stared down at Zach, full of suspicion. He opened his eyes and looked up at her. Here in the moonlight with her red hair down around her face, she was as beautiful as Zach had ever seen her. For a moment he caught the vulnerability in her eyes before the guard went up. Her expression turned severe.