The Cemetery Boys (9 page)

A chuckle escaped me. “Alcohol has a way of making things look different.”

“Maybe that's not such a bad thing.” He withdrew a flask from an inside pocket and unscrewed the cap, offering me a swig. When I shook my head, he took a gulp of whatever was inside, then closed the flask and put it away. “Tell me about Denver.”

I shrugged, taken aback some by his sudden interest in my past. “What's to tell? It's cold in the winter, but the people are nice.”

“I bet the mountains are awesome.” His expression looked almost dreamy, and I wondered for a moment exactly how much booze he could handle before falling off a roof.

“Why just bet on it? Why not move there?”

Storms rolled into his eyes, casting out the dreams that had been there. “You don't get it, Stephen. Some towns are like glue. And some people are just stuck. Entire families, man. For generations.”

“What about after high school? Why not apply to college somewhere else? Or get a job and move?”

Venom invaded him then, as if my suggestion really angered him. “Because some people don't have the luxury of choice, Stephen. And I'm one of them. I have a D average at an already crappy school. I'm stuck. In goddamn Spencer, Michigan. Until the day I die.”

We both went quiet for a few minutes, until finally, Devon broke our collective silence. “Cara was asking about you.”

A record needle immediately scratched across the soundtrack that had been playing inside my mind. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my obvious interest in the subject hidden behind a curtain of aloofness. “Yeah?”

Devon took a deep breath and blew it out through his nose, not meeting my eyes. “Yeah.”

Without saying anything else, he climbed down from the tower, onto the main roof. As I began to follow, he gestured to my feet and to the loose shingles. But when he spoke, I knew that he wasn't concerned for my safety. He was talking about Cara, and reminding me of our little conversation by the reservoir the night we met.

He said, “Watch your step.”

Despite the fact that it was in the eighties and sticky-hot, I felt a chill in the air. One that could only be attributed to the strange undercurrent of fear that I had of Devon, and the understanding that no one, apparently, was allowed anywhere near his sister without his consent. But I couldn't leave Cara alone now. It was too late for that. It was too late for a lot of things.

Dropping down the last few feet to the grass below, I looked up at the mansion, amazed that we'd climbed so high—especially without getting caught or breaking our necks. Devon was already on the ground waiting for me, as if to make sure that I made it down okay. After I landed, we made our way to the sidewalk, where Devon lit another clove cigarette. The smoke smelled sweet, like pipe tobacco. But that didn't mean I enjoyed it being blown in my face.

Devon's attention was focused on a car making its way slowly down the street toward us. It was small and sporty, and in the soft light of the streetlamps, it looked to be a cool,
metallic blue. Nothing at all like Dad's crappy Beetle.

Devon inhaled sharply, making the ember on his cigarette glow orange, as the car came to a stop beside where we were standing. The driver's-side window buzzed as it went down. Lane leaned out and gestured for me to come closer. Lane's friend Casey was sitting in the passenger seat. After a moment's hesitation, I approached the car. “Hey, Lane. What's up?”

“Need a ride?” The inside of the car reeked of cheap beer. So much for his ice-cream-social image.

“Nah. I can walk. It's not far.”

“Sure you'd rather walk? Might not be safe.” His eyes moved immediately behind me to Devon—an action that was both arrogant and insulting. He was implying that Devon was some kind of criminal . . . and while, okay, that might not be far from the truth, he had no business pointing it out to me or anyone else. Lane didn't bother lowering his voice when he spoke again. He might've spoken a little louder, just to be sure that Devon heard him. “You know that guy?”

I looked over my shoulder at Devon, who took another drag on his smoke before dropping it to the ground and grinding it into dust with his shoe. I couldn't read what he was thinking for sure in his expression, but I thought I had a pretty good guess. I turned back to Lane, making sure to keep my voice just as loud as his so that Devon would
definitely hear. “Yeah. We're friends.”

Lane pursed his lips, looking very much like he was holding back a mouthful of vomit. What was it about a guy like Devon that made a guy like Lane sick? Or was he about to retch over having misjudged me for a fellow racquetball fiend? His top lip twitched as he said, “You should be more careful who you make friends with, Stephen. That whole family is trash.”

Backing up, I returned to my place on the sidewalk beside Devon. “I am careful. Thanks.”

Lane hit the gas and his tires spun until they squealed, sending smoke and the smell of burnt rubber into the air. As Lane peeled away, Devon flipped him the bird.

I shook my head. “That guy is such a douche.”

Devon shrugged, his eyes still keenly locked on Lane's retreating vehicle. “He doesn't matter.”

“And he knows it,” I said. “A guy like Lane? He'll never matter.” The smoke from Lane's tires settled onto the pavement before disappearing.

“Will any of us?” Devon cocked an eyebrow at me, and I found myself speechless for a moment. It had sounded like an admission of self-doubt, but that couldn't be. A guy like Devon was in charge, confident, and never doubted anything. Did he?

In the grass behind us, a cricket chirped its opinion. My
mouth felt dry, in spite of or maybe because of all the drinking I'd done. “You headin' home?” I said.

“Not yet.” He turned on his heel and headed back down the sidewalk, in the direction of the Playground. Offering me a halfhearted salute over his shoulder, he said, “Later.”

“Later.” The word fell flat in the surrounding night air.

The walk home was quiet and empty—the way that small towns get once the sun goes down. In the distance, I could hear a dog yowling, but even that didn't last. No one was outside, and the air had that heavy feeling of after midnight. I wasn't scared or uneasy. Just peaceful. Maybe this place wasn't so bad after all.

Stopping at a light on the end of my street, I looked up hopefully at Cara's house, and it must have been my lucky night, because there was Cara sitting on her front porch swing. Her eyes were downcast, her hands folded delicately in her lap. As I moved closer, I saw the glint of tears on her cheeks, which made my feet move faster. When I stepped up on the porch, the boards beneath my feet creaked, drawing her attention. She dried her eyes with the palms of her hands and I sat next to her, not saying anything at all, not knowing what a guy was supposed to say when he found a girl he cared for crying her eyes out in the middle of the night. We sat there together, swinging slowly. After a while, I reached out and took her hand in mine. Then I waited. For
what, I didn't know. For whatever Cara needed me to wait for, I guessed.

Fireflies lit up the front yard—bright spots amid the darkness. I watched them, occasionally squeezing Cara's hand, reminding her that I was next to her. With her.

Finally, she spoke, her voice raspy, as if her tears had been pouring for a long time before I'd found her there. “She's crazy, y'know. Everyone sees it. Everyone knows it. But no one talks about it. My mom is crazy, my dad is gone, Devon might as well be gone. Meanwhile, the only money we've got comes from life insurance checks, and I'm left here, picking up the pieces of her crazy every day.”

I didn't want to lie to her. I didn't want to tell her what everyone had probably already told her before. That her mom just needed some time, that her dad was in a better place now, that Devon would come back to her eventually. I wanted to tell her the truth. “Your brother's a jerk for leaving this all on you. It sucks that you lost your dad. And you're right. Martha is crazy.”

For a moment, I wondered if I was doing the right thing—maybe she really had wanted me to spout some bullshit about how everything was going to be okay. But then I looked into her eyes and saw relief. Relief that someone had recognized what a truly shitty situation she was
stuck in. Relief that someone understood.

She squeezed my hand and said, “She didn't used to be. But seeing my dad die just totally broke her. She has been a raving lunatic ever since.”

I hated to ask, but had to. “What happened to him?”

“He was chief of police of this shit-hole town, y'know. But it was better back then. My mom was totally normal. A little distant, but normal—reachable, y'know?”

I didn't, but I nodded anyway. I was surprised to hear her dad had been the chief of police, considering how Devon and Cara both seemed to live just outside the law. But maybe that was the point. And Cara needed someone to understand. She needed someone to listen, and I wanted to hear every word she had to say.

“I used to catch him and my mom slow dancing in the kitchen to an old song by the Smiths called ‘Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want.' It was sweet.” A brief smile brushed her lips, but quickly faded away. As if in response, the fireflies lighting up her front yard dimmed.

“Then one night he went investigating something at the Playground. Everything changed after that. The official report says some homeless guy killed him and then got away. Of course”—she sighed the words more than spoke them—“that's not what my mom says.”

“What's Martha's theory?” Cara's hand fit perfectly in mine. I couldn't help but notice how soft her fingers were. Almost fragile.

After a moment of silence, I realized that she was looking at me, her perfect bottom lip pinched between her teeth. She looked worried. Or frightened. Maybe both. I was about to ask why when she said, “She thinks the Winged Ones got him.”

My heart beat twice before I could speak again. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Slowly, she slipped her hand away from mine and placed it in her lap.

I didn't know what to say. “This town really loves its legends, eh?”

“You could say that.” A light breeze passed, brushing her hair into her eyes for a moment and then brushing it back. She didn't speak again, which meant that I kind of had to. The only real problem was that I had no idea what to say.

“So . . . basically . . . Martha saw him killed, lost her mind, and now blames his death on some monsters with wings that bring tragedy down on one single small Michigan town's population?”

“Pretty much.” Cara shifted in her seat, as if she was suddenly growing uncomfortable. I wondered if I'd said or done something wrong.

“Hey,” I said, reaching out and brushing her arm with
my knuckles. “Are you mad at me?”

“No. I just . . .” She released a sigh. “You're making fun of me.”

Shaking my head, I captured her hand once again. This time, she didn't immediately lace her fingers with mine. “I am not. I'm just agreeing with you that your mom might be one French fry short of a Happy Meal.”

“I know. It's just . . . she's still my mom. Y'know?” She shrugged with one shoulder, and I got it. Martha, for all her crazy faults, was still the woman who'd given birth to Cara, who'd given her Devon, who probably had wiped away her tears as a kid. And no one outside of that relationship had any right to speak ill of her.

“I get it.” She frowned doubtfully, so I took a deep breath and readied the heavy words on my tongue. “My mom lives in an asylum.”

Her eyes popped open wider then, and I gave it a second to sink in that I wasn't lying or trying to top her issues with her own mom. I just wanted her to see that if anyone outside of her immediate family understood her situation, it was me. But if I was going to be honest with her, I needed to be honest with myself—something I struggled with on a daily basis. “One day she started ranting about her own brand of monsters, actually, and she just never stopped. They thought she was schizophrenic, then they thought maybe
she was suffering from dementia, but now the doctors aren't sure what it is. Whatever she has, it seems to be permanent. All they can do is keep her doped up and locked away, so that she's not ‘a danger to herself or others.' My dad is looking for a new job, but he has to find a place with a good facility nearby so we can move Mom near us, too. Until then, we're pretty much stuck, and so is she.”

Cara's eyes shimmered in the low light. In the yard, the fireflies began to glow again, a small glimmer of hope amid the darkness. She gave my hand a squeeze. Gentle. Caring. Understanding. “I'm sorry about your mom.”

“I'm sorry about your mom, too.” I swallowed, forcing tears back down my throat. I cried hard the day my mom was admitted, and promised myself that that would be the last time I shed tears over something I couldn't control. “I miss her. And it kills me to say it, but I kinda blame her for my life sucking—apart from this, I mean.” I gave her hand a squeeze. As if to let me know how much she understood, she squeezed back. It meant more to me than she could possibly know. “Without the hospital bills, we would have been okay. But . . . I guess it doesn't matter. I just keep wishing the phone would ring and we'd get news that she's all better now and coming home. How stupid is that? To wish for something that will never happen? But still . . . I miss her.”

Cara nodded, getting it completely. Getting me—like no one ever had before. “I miss my mom, too. It wouldn't be so bad if Devon would just help out more, y'know? But he's totally avoided us since Dad died. Now all he does is drink at the Playground.”

“It's probably his way of dealing with it. Some people just can't handle death.” I glanced at her then, and kept my voice hushed out of respect. “He told me about his friend drowning. Bobby.”

“That kid was a putz. If you ask me, Devon's better off without him.” Her words were so sudden, so cold in the midnight air, I half expected to see them leave her lips in a puff of fog. But then she looked at me, and all that had troubled me about what she'd just said disappeared in an instant. She was dressed in mourner's black, and despite her tears, her thick, dark eyeliner remained. Her eyes shimmered in the aftermath of her sadness. My gaze dropped slowly to her lips, so full and lovely, begging to be kissed. I couldn't remember ever finding anyone so attractive before.

Without thinking about rejection, I said, “I think you might be the most beautiful person I've ever met, Cara. Inside and out, y'know? You're just . . . perfect.”

“I was thinking the same thing about you.” She smiled. My lips immediately mirrored hers. When she squeezed my hand this time, it was playful. “Thanks, by the way. For
understanding about moms and craziness and whatnot.”

“No problem.” I dropped my gaze to our hands, but on the way, I couldn't help noticing how low the V-neck of her shirt dipped, and couldn't ignore the curves underneath. Suddenly the air felt very warm.

Devon's words echoed in my memory.
“Watch your step.”

Panic filled me—mostly because I didn't want to die at the hands of my girlfriend's brother, who was also my friend now, I guessed. And I hadn't really established the fact that I wanted Cara as my girlfriend in any official capacity, which meant that this could end up becoming a random hookup in action—something I definitely knew wouldn't fly with Devon. “So . . . I know you said he's been kind of distant, but . . . Devon seems pretty protective of you.”

“My life is none of Devon's business.” She stood and gave my hand a tug, nodding toward the front door of her house. “Come on. I wanna show you my room.”

Suddenly I didn't give two shits about Devon or his opinions. I followed her inside and up the stairs, ignoring the mounds of religious paraphernalia that decorated the living room walls. Plaques featuring the seven deadly sins, a large framed list of the Ten Commandments, and enough crosses and dead Jesuses to choke a horse. A weird horse who liked eating religious junk. Probably one from small-town Michigan.

There was no sign of Martha, but I kept my footfalls as quiet as possible, just in case. Something told me that no parent—even a whackadoo like her—dreamed of the day a boy snuck into their daughter's bedroom.