Gravestone (19 page)

43. Fight

It’s interesting how life can work sometimes.

How one random comment can be followed by another random comment. How one plus one doesn’t always necessarily equal two, but a number far greater.

I’m nearing the open area of the cafeteria when I pass Gus and his boys. I wonder if he even bothers going to class or if he really, truly is just a high school bully cliché.

“Miss your little slut?”

There’s no chance that I misheard him. The words cut deep.

I’m carrying a paper bag containing an apple and a sandwich and some chips and a can of generic pop.

It takes me maybe two seconds to turn to my right and raise my hand and ram the bag against Gus’s ugly fat pimply face. It lands somewhere between his forehead and his nose. I was going for the nose, but it doesn’t matter because it did the trick.

A steady burst of blood splats out on the white floor as Gus goes backward, and I proceed to take the bag again and ram it against the side of his big flabby ear.

Then things get blurry, and I’m being both pounced on and pulled away and yelled at and smothered.

This melee seems to go on a long time, but it’s just probably a matter of seconds.

When I finally see the light of day someone’s pulling me back and I see that it’s Oli and it’s crazy how strong the guy is. In front of me is Gus buckled on the ground with a hand covering the geyser that’s his nose as his eyes squint.

That can of generic pop sure did the trick.

His buddies are at his side while a couple of teachers are around us and a whole bunch of students are circling this circus.

I see Mr. Meiners, who shakes his head and jerks my arm and tells me to come with him. 

As I do, I hear something crazy.

Applause.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Mr. Meiners is leading me to the principal’s office, and I’m wondering why he isn’t leading Gus or even seeing if the guy is okay.

“I’m tired of it.”

“Tired of what?”

“If I don’t do something, he’s just going to keep it up.”

Mr. Meiners tugs on my arm and pulls me to a stop.
“Listen to me and listen good, Chris. Don’t be stupid. Don’t. Okay?”

I’m shocked, not because of his grip on my sweatshirt or because he’s angry, but because he’s talking in a hushed tone.

“You just don’t get it, do you?”

I shake my head.

“Mind your own business and stay away from trouble, especially that kind.”

“You don’t know what he said.”

“I don’t care what he said, and you shouldn’t either.” He breathes out and looks up and down the hall. “Just stop bringing attention to yourself. Stop being a hero. You gotta see the bigger picture, Chris.”

“You sound like the principal.”

He yanks my sleeve hard enough to make me grimace. “And you sound like some ordinary moronic teen. The thing you just can’t comprehend—that you can’t see—is that you’re not. You’re different, Chris.”

By now another teacher is coming down the hallway with Gus. Mr. Meiners leads me to Miss Harking’s office.

Which stinks, because I was kinda hungry.

Like any ordinary moronic teen might be.

44. Belief

“So do you have an answer to my question?”

My body aches from the work I’ve done today. No woodcutting—it looks like Iris has barely touched any of the wood I cut last Saturday. But I’ve been cutting down weeds and cleaning up debris around the house. Do that all day long and you’ll see how exhausted you can be, especially when you’re going up an insanely steep incline.

I curse in my own head. I don’t feel like answering some stupid question about what I believe. I’ve just come in and washed my hands, and I’m still sweaty even though it’s freezing outside.

She stands at attention like a drill sergeant, waiting.

“No, I haven’t—I’m still not quite sure.”

“Chris. Please give me the respect to at least consider the things I ask. I’m sure you thought of my question at some point in the week. Yes?”

“This has been a lame week.”

“How so?”

“Got after-school detention for three weeks for sticking up for myself.”

“So you believe one should stick up for himself?”

“Yeah. If you need to.”

“See how easy it is to answer the question.”

“I thought you were asking about life and death.”

“That too,” Iris says. She goes away and then brings me a bottled water.

It’s not quite time for Mom to come, but my work outside is finished.

“So what else has been ‘lame’ about the week?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do know, Chris.” She waits, but I don’t answer. “Is it the school, or the town, or your family?”

“How about all of the above?”

“Do you believe that you’re watched over?”

I let out a chuckle. “Yeah, totally. Everybody’s watching me. Everybody’s telling me to lie low and go with the flow and stay out of everybody’s hair.”

“And are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you believe that God watches over you?”

“No.” I probably sound a bit irritated.

“You seem to know that without question.”

“That’s just what I believe.”

“So you don’t believe that angels watch over you?”

I think of Jocelyn and then for some reason think of Midnight. I don’t know why.

Maybe because they’re the closest things I’ve seen to angels on this earth.

“No. Why would they?”

I’m expecting an argument or her opinion, but I don’t get either. She goes over to a table in the corner and takes something out of a drawer. She hands it to me—a square black-and-white photograph.

“That is Jason. My son. He died before he was ten years old.”

I don’t know what to say.

“I used to have this place as a mini-monument to him, but I’ve since realized that he’s in a better place and that he does indeed watch over me. Not in any way that I can fully understand or observe, but I believe he’s here.”

“Sorry,” I say. I want to ask how he died and when, but I don’t.

“When someone we love dies, there are two ways to go with the empty hole inside of us.”

Why’s she talking plural?

“You can grow to love more and rely more. Or you grow to hate more.”

I look away from her at the bottled water I’m holding. I’m feeling awkward and stupid.

“Death isn’t the final stage in our journey, Chris. That’s what I believe.”

I feel my body wash over with tingles.

Does she know, like everybody else?

Does she know about Jocelyn?

“It took me a while to learn that,” Iris says as she takes back the picture of the smiling kid. “It was a hard road. But we’re all on our own journey, and death is but a part of it. It’s the necessary evil of this ugly world. But it can also be perhaps the brightest part of it all, understanding what death truly means. Do you know what it means, Chris?”

I only shake my head. At least I’m being honest. I don’t have a clue.

“Some people say it’s the inevitable end. But they say it like it’s the sad end of some story. In reality, death is just the starting point.”

She puts the picture away and closes the drawer. My “lesson” for the day is over.

Strangely enough, I want to hear more.

45. Uninvited Guest

Why can’t
I
drown my sorrows? Why are adults and rebellious teens the only ones who get to do that?

It’s Saturday night, and I’m still sore and exhausted from the day of working at the inn, but I can’t get to sleep. Part of me is worried about Mom, who is really sloshed downstairs. It’s one thing if she’s passed out or if she’s not here, but she’s here and she’s awake and God knows what she might end up doing to herself. I worry about her going outside and falling off the deck and breaking her neck. So I lie in the darkness with my eyes wide open, listening and wondering and hoping.

I remember when Dad used to have bad days. He was gone so much that I didn’t see much of it, but during the last few years before he met God in the parking lot of somewhere, I’d see him downing the heavy stuff. That’s how Mom started, because they’d both drink together, casually at first at parties and all that other adult stuff they’d do. Then as the stresses of Dad’s job as a lawyer increased, so did the dark stuff he’d drink in the clear short glasses. Mom never liked it and didn’t like him drinking it either. Said he got mean when he drank, and he did. Mom drank wine and got tired.

Eventually, after Dad told us he’d been born-again and I seriously needed him to explain exactly what that meant (I’m still kinda wondering), he swore off the liquor altogether. I don’t think he was/is an alcoholic, but he just stopped drinking.

Mom sure isn’t born-again, because she’s only been drinking more.

I really have no desire to copy all that.

Yet—a very big yet—sometimes I want to escape. Not just this room and this shack, but this life. And I know that’s one way to do so.

It’s temporary, but it’s still a tiny escape.

Eventually, as I’m half in sleep and half out, I hear running water in Mom’s bathroom. She’s getting ready for bed.

Good.

I wonder what Dad is doing. I wonder how that’s going for him, how it feels to have been born-again and then to lose his family.

If that’s part of the deal, then no thanks.

I think of Jocelyn.

You not only need answers, Chris, you also need hope.

It’s easier to ignore my father’s ramblings than hers.

A monster slipped into our house this morning when I was asleep, and he came through the front door.

I’m walking down the stairs in my sweats, and I see him standing in the living room. The narrow weasely face. The square cool-guy glasses. The short cool-guy hair. For a second I think I’m dreaming.

“Good morning, Chris,” the politician—I mean piranha—I mean pastor says.

Mom looks worse than I do, because she’s in clothes that she slept in and she obviously hasn’t had a chance to do any of that fixing up that women do. I’ve always thought she was pretty, but she can’t cover the out-of-it look from the wine last night.

“I was on my way to church and thought I’d stop to see you folks and bring you some breakfast.”

He’s already in a button-down shirt with a fancy pattern on one side and nicely pressed jeans. I can smell his cologne or hair product or his girly-man soap.

“Do you like coffee?” he asks.

“Sure,” I lie, my voice and body and mind all hovering over this surreal moment.

I see a box of half a dozen donuts. Not Dunkin’ Donuts, because this place is too weird to have one of those. These should be called Devil Donuts. Each one comes with its own hallucination.

“We began a new series of sermons at the start of the year. I thought you might be interested. Chris, you’ve been to our church a few times.”

I think of the last time I was there, of the storage room, of the weird vibe I got stepping foot in the building.

“Yeah.”

“Not trying to bribe you with donuts.” He smiles his creepy smile. “But I believe that a church is about more than just a building or a pastor. It’s about community. It’s about the people.”

“It’s very nice of you to come by,” Mom says. “I feel embarrassed that I was—”

“Please,” Pastor Marsh says. “This is my big day, but it’s your day of rest. I don’t mean to disturb it at all.”

I see him watching me so I take a donut, even though I’m not very hungry. I smile as my mouth is full.

“How are you doing, Chris?”

He hasn’t done anything to me. Besides given me creepy, weird vibes.

So why do I feel like I want to run away every time he’s near?

“Doing good.”

What if I’m wrong? What if everything everybody’s told me about this guy is a lie?

“Staying busy?”

I nod.

“Chris got a job at the Crag’s Inn.”

The eyes move to me, and they change. I swear they change. They do something weird. Not like change colors and suddenly widen in horror, but they seem to lock on me like a bird zeroing in on its prey.

Maybe it’s just my imagination.

“And how are you enjoying it?” Pastor Marsh says without any change of tone.

“Good.”

“Is the old lady still working there?”

“Iris?” Mom asks. “Yes, she’s still there.”

He doesn’t stop looking at me. “Good to hear you’re keeping busy.”

Why does everybody want me to stay busy? As if what? As if I’m going to get bored and then suddenly build an atom bomb?

“My new sermon is on community. It’s about building bridges and building relationships. No pressure, but of course I’d love to see you there. Both of you.”

“Thanks,” Mom says.

She’s too tired and embarrassed to have her defenses completely up. If she did, she might tell the pastor what he could do with his community. Or where he could go with it.

“There are some great teenagers at our church, Chris. I think you’d enjoy getting to know them. In lots of different ways.”

He smiles, and I feel like something’s slithering down my back. I smile back, and it’s gotta be the worst fake smile ever.

“Enjoy your day. And your donuts.”

Mom thanks him as he walks to the door. Before he steps out, he turns.

“Oh, and Chris, next time just ask if you’d like a tour. I’ll give you one anytime.”

Then he’s gone, leaving me speechless and Mom cursing.

“Why did he show up here? It’s barely eight o’clock. I must look like a train wreck.”

You probably smell like a vineyard.

“Did you invite him over?” she asks.

“Are you serious?”

“Well, why would he just show up?”

“Maybe Dad put in a call to him.”

“Stop it. What did he mean about giving you a tour?”

I shrug and take a second donut.

“How are they?”

I nod. “If I die from poisoning, you’ll know who did it.”

Neither of us laughs.

As The Smiths say, that joke isn’t funny anymore.