He didn’t believe the cop who’d investigated the accident, either. Officer Romano had been on the scene. He’d measured the skid marks and interviewed the witnesses, those three girls. They’d all agreed that Mark hadn’t been speeding and that the victim had chased a tennis ball into the road and hadn’t even noticed the car. They were the victim’s friends. If anyone might have had a reason to blame him, they did.
But they hadn’t blamed him. Romano had impounded the car and returned it the following day, claiming that all the evidence cleared Mark of responsibility for the accident.
Romano’s words didn’t convince Mark, though. The statements of the three friends, his parents’ inane murmurs, Tracy’s gentle words—none of it proved he was innocent.
Nothing Danny said could make Mark feel worse than he already did. Guilt was not a word written on a police document. It was a gash slicing your soul. Mark’s soul was permanently scarred, and no statements of support were going to change that.
“I’ll be skipping the party,” he said to Danny, the first words he’d spoken that morning. He drank half the coffee in his mug in one hard gulp, then refilled it and stalked out of the room, hoping that if he got far enough away from his brother, the fist inside his chest would unfurl.
THE UNITARIAN-Universalist First Parish church was three miles from his house. He walked slowly, more eager to escape from his family than to arrive at the church. But he wanted to attend the memorial service. It was more important than Danny’s party, more important than Danny’s expected announcement that he and Tracy were getting engaged. More important than the rented tent and the tables, the food and drink and the countless guests his parents had invited to toast their golden son, guests who were likely to spend a fair portion of the afternoon whispering about the other son, the tarnished one.
Mark sure as hell didn’t want to be there.
The service had been announced in the Wheatley Gazette, the town’s weekly tabloid. The newspaper had carried a big front-page article about the accident. Mark had read it, studied it, memorized it. He’d wept at the photograph of April Walden—one of those stiff school photos in which her head was tilted slightly and her eyes were aimed upward, as if she were gazing into a future she was never going to experience. She’d been fifteen years old, a good student. She enjoyed singing and playing the piano, according to her parents. She had two younger brothers. Her English teacher, Mr. Schenk—Mark had also had him for English, three years ago—described her as a sensitive writer. No one had a negative thing to say about her.
She was another of those perfect people, like Danny. Mark had killed a perfect girl.
Her friends weren’t mentioned by name in the article. It had said simply that she’d been playing tennis with three friends at the town court on Baker’s Hill Road, and they’d been walking home when the accident had occurred. Mark’s name was mentioned, along with the statement that no charges had been filed against him.
Immediately after the article had appeared, the phone at his house had started ringing. Mark had let his parents field the calls—thank God Danny had still been visiting with Tracy’s family on Long Island at the time, because all that phone-ringing would have only pissed him off even more. Mark’s mother had said the callers were offering condolences. They were so sorry for him, so sorry it happened, they hoped he was feeling okay. After that first day, though, silence. No one dared to call anymore. Offering condolences was proper form, but at bottom people didn’t really care how he was feeling. They knew he’d killed April Walden.
The morning was growing summer hot. He entertained the malicious hope that everyone at Danny’s party would become overheated, that they would sweat and wilt and drink too much in an attempt to cool off. They’d get sloshed and sloppy. They’d make asses of themselves. Mark considered praying that Danny would make an ass of himself, too, but that prayer would go unanswered. Danny never made an ass of himself.
Mark loosened his tie and opened his collar button, figuring he could neaten himself once he arrived at First Parish. He wondered if the church had air-conditioning, and then he felt guilty for thinking about his own comfort when April Walden was dead because of him. He wasn’t entitled to feel comfortable. He ought to sweat as if the fires of Hades were licking at the soles of his feet.
A few blocks from the church, he noticed the cars parked bumper to bumper along Main Street. Nearer the church, he saw that its tiny parking lot was packed, as was the parking lot in front of the elementary school across the street. Streams of people flowed like tributaries into the grand river of a crowd on the church steps, men in suits and women in summer dresses, and kids, lots of high school kids, in jeans, mini-skirts, cargo pants, overalls, ankle-length skirts, shorts, and more jeans. Half of Wheatley High School seemed to be lining up outside the church. Either April had been very popular, or her memorial service had become the social event of the day.
He hated the notion that all those high school kids had shown up at the church just to be social—but he couldn’t deny the possibility. A year ago, he’d been a high school kid himself, gearing up for graduation. He wasn’t so far removed from high school that he couldn’t remember the way kids’ minds worked, the way his own mind worked. You did what your friends were doing, went where they were going, expressed their sentiments as your own. You never wanted to be the only kid who wasn’t where everyone else was. April Walden’s memorial service was the place to be, so everyone was there.
In his blazer, khakis, and sunglasses, he hoped no one would recognize him. Thank God his photo hadn’t been in the Wheatley Gazette. The only people who might recognize him would be his own friends, those few who might be home from college for the summer. They’d been among the people phoning the house last week, though, and after all their recitations of sorrow, he hadn’t heard from any of them. They knew he was toxic, the murderer in their midst. He wasn’t going to see any of them here today.
He waited his turn at the foot of the wide stairs that led up to the open double-doors. The building was three hundred years old, and it reeked of New England charm—white clapboard, arched narrow windows, a towering spire housing a bell which was gonging right now, slow and dirge-like.
Tears flooded his eyes. He squeezed them shut behind his sunglasses, and the blackness gave way to a vision of her lying at the edge of the road, on her back, her head resting beneath a tree. He hadn’t been going fast—if he had, she would have likely suffered internal injuries—but according to Officer Romano, her head had slammed down hard on a protruding root, causing a cerebral hemorrhage that had killed her.
He opened his eyes, and a fresh surge of tears filled them. The crowd of people moved forward, and he was able to climb two steps before squeezing his eyes shut again and thanking whatever impulse had led him to don his sunglasses. Other people here had legitimate grounds to cry. They’d known her, loved her. He was crying as much for himself as for her, and he didn’t deserve a single tear.
Finally, into the church. After the bright glare of the sun, the interior seemed unnaturally dark. He stayed with the throng as it swarmed through the vestibule and into the chapel, which was as stark and New-England quaint as the building’s exterior. It was filled with row upon row of straight wooden pews, most of them full. Murmurs and muted sobs echoed off the ceiling.
He took his place standing at the rear of the chapel. Lots of people were going to have to stand, and he ought to be one of them, even though he’d hiked several miles to get there and faced another long hike home afterward. He needed the aches in his back and his feet, needed to feel the choke of his tie as he slid the knot tight against his throat. If his eyes dried up, he would take off his sunglasses, but for now, they were the one indulgence he would allow himself.
He searched the room. Way at the front sat older people—her parents, probably, grandparents, aunts, uncles. A couple of young boys—her brothers, he guessed. Behind th
ose first few privileged rows sat other adults. The rest of the pews were filled with teenagers. They were the ones sobbing the loudest. A few boys seemed to be weeping, but the girls cried openly, leaning into each other, huddling and hugging, some of them so close their heads seemed to be fused. Did they all know April well enough to be wailing over her, or were they wailing over something else—the loss of innocence, the acknowledgment of mortality? Or was it just one of those mass-hysteria moments? Girls always did things together, like a well-trained chorus. They went to a movie and sighed in unison over some actor. They went to the bathroom in a mob, combed their hair and giggled and gossiped en masse. And now here they were, grieving in unison, as if the death of April meant exactly the same thing to each of them.
Maybe it did.
Except for the three girls he saw seated together at the end of one pew. He felt a sharp twinge in his chest at the sight of them. More than a twinge. A punch. A stab. Something fierce and lethal. He recognized those girls. The one with the dark, glossy hair; the tall, clumsy-looking one; the skinny blond one. She sat in the middle, flanked by the other two. The room was so full and resonant, he couldn’t be sure if they were crying like all the other girls.
If they were crying, it was in their own way, a way he could understand because, like him, they’d been there, seen it, been a part of it. They’d been the ones to tell the cop that Mark had done nothing wrong, that it wasn’t his fault. Mark didn’t believe them, but Officer Romano did, and for that he ought to be grateful.
They sat together, apart from the others, even though there was no actual space separating them. They had an aura about them, an invisible shield surrounding them. Their grief wasn’t over the loss of innocence or the fear of death. Their grief was over losing April.
Abruptly, the blond one twisted in her seat, her shoulders nudging her friends as she turned to stare at him. Maybe not at him—how could she know he’d be there? How would she know where to look? How could she possibly pick him out of such a huge crowd?
Yet he felt the power in her eyes, the anger, the hatred, the pain in them. She wore eyeglasses, but the strength of her gaze shot right through the lenses, through the air, and into his heart.
The instant he felt their sting, she turned away.
She hadn’t seen him. She couldn’t have. He was just one face among a multitude of them, a guy in sunglasses. He doubted she’d even seen him at the scene of the accident, so she couldn’t have recognized him now. That her eyes had found him was purely a random thing, meaningless.
He struggled to breathe. There wasn’t enough oxygen in the church. Not enough light, not enough life. But that was okay. He needed to struggle right now, to suffer. A shortage of seats or a shortage of oxygen, it was his fate to be the one to give up his share so others might have enough. He wasn’t worthy of air.
A tap on his shoulder made him jump. Turning, he found himself face-to-face with Officer Romano. The cop was a couple of inches shorter than Mark, probably forty pounds heavier, and his cheeks had a paunchiness to them, like stretched-out fabric drooping around his jaw. But his eyes were gentle, kind of weary, not weapons like the blond girl’s eyes. They sat in little pouches of skin that gathered at the outer corners, and as he peered up at Mark he smiled.
Smiled. No one had smiled at Mark in a week. The very sight of a smile sent a shock through him.
“Let’s go outside,” Romano said.
Mark followed Romano, edging past the crowds lined up along the back wall, muttering, “Excuse me, excuse me,” as they made their way toward the vestibule. When they stepped outside, the sunlight slammed into Mark’s eyes and they filled with moisture. Once again he was glad to be wearing sunglasses.
Romano donned a pair of sunglasses, too. He wore his uniform—navy blue shirt, navy blue trousers, navy blue tie, brass badge. No hat, of course, not at a church service. His hair was half gray and half gone, his scalp shining through the strands.
The steps were empty; everyone was already inside. Romano gestured toward one concrete step and sat. Mark sat next to him. “What are you doing here?” Romano asked.
Mark’s legs bent sharply because the steps were so shallow. “I thought I should come,” he said. Lie: he hadn’t thought about it at all. It had been instinct. Mindless need. A craving to be where it was safe to cry over what had happened.
“Well . . . ” Romano had broad, pink hands, fingers as thick as hot dogs. He flexed them, then planted them on his knees. “I’m wondering if maybe this isn’t the best place for you to be today.”
“I wanted to pray for her,” Mark said, even though that was probably a lie, too.
Romano chuckled. “Unitarians don’t pray, do they?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Not like my church, anyway. It’s going to be real sad in there, Mark. You don’t need that.”
“I’m sad.” He sounded like a little boy. My toy truck is broken. My dog ran away, I’m sad.
“You’ve got to put this behind you,” Romano said.
“I can’t.”
“You’re free and clear. It’s history. Time to rebuild.”
“I can’t.”
Romano sighed.
Mark recalled the time, seven years ago, when Romano had come to Mark’s sixth-grade class to discuss alcohol and drug abuse. He’d looked as old then as he looked now, but clearly he had changed. Mark had grown ten inches since then, and he’d aged ten years since last week. Romano couldn’t be the same person as that chubby cop who’d stood in front of Ms. Landowsky’s classroom and said, “It takes strength to say no to your friends. Who in this room is strong enough to say no?”
“Look,” Romano continued. “It’s not like I’m saying nothing terrible happened here. It did. It stinks. I don’t mean to belittle that.”
Mark took in every word. He knew Romano was making more sense now than he had when he’d told that wide-eyed class of twelve-year-olds that marijuana invariably led to hard drugs. Romano knew about death. April Walden wasn’t the first accident victim he’d ever seen, and she wouldn’t be the last. She was Mark’s first, though, and if she wasn’t his last, if he ever had to go through something like this again—and why not assume he would? He was a fuck-up, a loser, the bad Gottlieb brother, the one who killed girls—he would go crazy. He was already halfway to crazy now.
“You can’t let this ruin your life,” Romano insisted.
Mark stared at Romano’s fingers. They didn’t seem to have joints. When he flexed them, they curled rather than bent.
“Come on. I’ll take you home.”
“I don’t want to go home.”
“Then I’ll take you somewhere else. You don’t belong here.”
Mark would have argued, except that Romano was right. Mark didn’t belong in that church with April’s loved ones and most of the Wheatley High School student body. He didn’t know where he belonged, but it wasn’t here. “Take me to Baker’s Hill Road,” he requested.
Romano eyed him dubiously, then shrugged. Pushing his palms against his knees for leverage, he rose to his feet. Mark actually felt graceful next to the cop. His feet still hurt from his long walk to the church in his dress loafers. His hands, unlike Romano’s, were large and bony, his wrists knobby. He’d played baseball in high school. Big hands had been an asset in that sport, his left hand comfortably filling his glove, his bare right hand scooping up grounders and firing them to first.
Romano had left his police cruiser parked in front of a hydrant near the church. Major advantage of being a cop: you could park any damned place you wanted. Mark wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to sit in the backseat, the way he had when Romano had driven him from the accident scene to the police station. The backseat was for criminals and suspects. Romano had exonerated Mark, though. Did that mean he was supposed to sit in the front?
Apparently, it did. Romano opened the passe
nger door and Mark slid in, trying not to gawk at all the buttons and switches on the dashboard. One of those switches would make the siren sound, one would make the lights flash. One activated the two-way radio. One controlled the locks and windows on the back doors.
Romano settled behind the wheel and pulled away from the church. Mark glanced over his shoulder, memorizing the building the way it looked right now, washed in sunlight, framed by a vivid blue sky. Filled with people, all there to affirm that someone was gone.
Ten minutes took them to the other place where a man could affirm that someone was gone. It was here that she’d been lost. Right here, near the top of the hill, under that tree on a May afternoon.
Romano coasted half onto the shoulder, braked, and shut off the engine. He reached into a pocket in the driver’s side door and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “An old man’s vice,” he admitted as he climbed out of the car. “You want one?”
Mark smiled, recalling the seven-years-ago Officer Romano warning that cigarettes led to marijuana, and that kids who smoked were prone to high-risk behaviors in other areas, and oh, by the way, boys and girls, here’s a photograph of the way lungs look when you’ve got emphysema. Amazing that Romano could make Mark smile, today of all days.
He joined Romano at the front bumper of the car. He didn’t smoke, but he took a cigarette, anyway.
“This is the thing about death,” Romano said as he clicked a butane lighter into flame. “Sometimes you get to choose what’s going to kill you. Sometimes you don’t. Hard to say who’s luckier.”
Mark held a swallow of smoke in his mouth, not wanting to suck it deeper. If he did, he’d cough and choke and look like a dick. He blew it out slowly and tried not to grimace at the burnt, bitter taste it left on his tongue.
“I know you think this is your tragedy,” Romano continued, gazing at the red maple stretching tall over them. “It’s not. I’ve seen a lot of crashes in my day, Mark, a lot of nasty business. Never has anyone been less at fault than you.”
The April Tree Page 5
