Lori didn’t know what to say. She wanted to push, to understand what her son was going through, but part of her was too scared to unearth the truth since the truth inside these lies was far worse than she thought she could handle. She didn’t want to even imagine John doing something like Clara had, yet the part of her that was too scared to question further knew it was possible.

  “What was wrong with your mom?”

  “She was...troubled,” Lori said, feeling the old disgust and hate rise in her like a wicked bird, ready to pluck out the eyes of any creature that looked at the sky.

  “What did she do?”

  Lori saw a chance, a real one, to make a connection. To do something that might help John. She could have reached out right then. Extended a hand to him. Said, “I’m here, and I know some of what you’re going through.”

  That wicked bird was scared. Going back to that place? She couldn’t. Telling Vondi had been enough. Too much.

  “I’ll talk to you about it sometime, John, but it’s too early in the morning now.”

  John thought about his mother’s revelation all day.

  “What do you think happened with your grandma?” Harry asked.

  “I don’t know,” John said, barely paying attention to the question. “I never met her or called her ‘Grandma.’”

  His mom said something was wrong with their blood, but what did that mean?

  “Something with your brain, man. It means you’ve got some things not wired correctly up there.”

  Harry was right. That was exactly what it meant. Genetically, John was fucked.

  So...

  “It’s not your fault,” Harry said. “You can’t help this any more than you can help being white. You don’t let black people make you feel bad because you happen to have the same skin color as those who enslaved them, do you? If not, why feel bad about something else you can’t help?”

  John ignored him. He wasn’t going to get into the flaws in his comparison, but truth lived in his words, if not the whole truth. If John’s brain was different from the rest of the world’s, what the fuck was he supposed to do? Was Alicia’s?

  “Don’t call her,” Harry warned.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t trust her.”

  “My sister? Harry, are you serious?”

  “She’s never been there for you, has she? She won’t understand. I think your mom understands because I think she saw some things with her mother that were not wholesome. Your sister? No way.”

  “Shut up.” John grabbed the phone on his dorm room wall. He’d finally decided that not seeing Harry in his room would become unbearable when winter came. John called home. Alicia should be there, and he had to hope his parents didn’t pick up and yell at him for being up so late.

  “Hello?”

  Good. It was Alicia. “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Hey! How are you?”

  John hadn’t talked to her since he came over. She hadn’t called him, and he hadn’t called her, and both seemed fine with it, yet he liked hearing how happy she sounded at his call.

  “I’m okay. How are things there? Mom and Dad acting all right?”

  She laughed. “They’re pissed right now, actually. I got a C in geography, and they think my life is over. That’s why I’m home, actually. Trying to pacify them by staying at the house this week. The commute is a bitch.”

  John hadn’t even thought about her not living at home. She was at college. What else was he not seeing since he fell into his and Harry’s shared mind?

  Shake it off, he thought.

  “Were you looking for them?” she said.

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you. I am lucky you’re at the house.”

  “What’s up? How is everything over there? Meet any cute girls?”

  “Best of luck,” Harry said. He sat on John’s bed with a paperback open—one of Stephen King’s, something about a dark tower. John didn’t know since he didn’t have time to read. “She’s not going to let you get a word in edgewise. Women, am I right?”

  Harry didn’t look up, and John only shook his head. “Yeah, things are good. I’m actually talking to one girl. Her name’s Cindy.”

  “Oh, yeah? What color hair does she have? She better be a brunette like me.”

  John smiled. “Nah, she’s blonde.”

  “The devil, all of them.”

  John heard his sister’s smile and didn’t want to go forward but had to. If what his mom said was true, maybe Alicia felt some of the things he did.

  “Don’t do it, John. She’s a well-adjusted chick. She’s not like you,” Harry said as he turned a page in his book.

  “I wanted to ask you something serious,” John said. “You got a second?”

  “Sure.”

  “Has Mom ever talked to you about her mother? Our grandmother?”

  “No. She doesn’t like talking about her, I don’t think.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know, to be honest. I think something happened when she was younger. Dad never met her.”

  John nodded. His mother wasn’t just hiding whatever lay in her past from him but from the whole family.

  “Look, this is going to sound weird, but do you ever have strange thoughts?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Told you,” Harry said. “Told you, told you, told you. Listen to the way she said that. She’s not asking with any reservations. She’s genuinely curious.”

  John knew he was right. He’d heard it in her voice too. “I don’t know. I think I’m just tired.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve been having weird dreams lately, and I didn’t know if you had them at my age.”

  “What kind of dreams?”

  “Just end-of-the-world-type stuff.”

  Alicia laughed. “No, never dreamed about that. Go dream about that cute blonde.”

  “Maybe I will tonight. Thanks for talking, Alicia.”

  “Anytime. Call me at college. I want to hear more about what’s going on.”

  “Sure thing. Bye.”

  He hung up and looked at Harry, who didn’t glance up from his book.

  “King is good, man. Have you ever read him? This gunslinger—I need you to be more like him. It would be a lot easier for all of us.”

  “So, it’s just me. Not my mom, and not Alicia.”

  “You got me, John. Don’t ever forget that,” Harry said.

  23

  A PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG MAN

  “I’m going to hold your hand now,” John stated.

  “Oh, are you?”

  “Yes, I am. And if you don’t let me, I’ll tackle you.” John winked as he said it.

  “Well, I suppose I don’t have a choice, but I want to go on record as saying that I’m doing this because I was forced to.” Cindy reached for his hand and took it, interlocking their fingers.

  Neither said anything for a minute, just walked hand in hand. The air was cool. Winter was letting the world know its time was near. The sun had gone down four hours before, but neither noticed. They had just seen a movie, John’s first British film.

  The night was coming to an end, and John didn’t want to pull away. Harry never showed up when he was with Cindy. John could forget that part of his life and just...be.

  “I like you,” he blurted.

  “Yeah? Do you feel like a traitor?”

  “A little.” He smiled and looked at his feet.

  A second passed. “I like you, too. A lot.”

  They walked a few more feet, the silence not the least bit awkward.

  “I’ve never said that to a girl before,” John said, still looking at his feet and smiling.

  “Have you ever kissed a girl?”

  “Bold, aren’t you? If you people had been a bit bolder two hundred years ago, you might have won the war.”

  Cindy pulled her hand away and punched him in the shoulder. John kept walking, but she didn’t move.

  “I’m only kidding,” he said when he turned around, finally looking up.

  “I wasn’t. Have you kissed a girl?” She stood four feet from him.

  “No.”

  “Can I be your first?”

  He looked at her eyes, shining in the moonlight, and thought he’d never seen anyone more beautiful.

  “You’d be my first, too,” she offered.

  John stepped forward, not sure what he was doing but knowing he would do it regardless. He placed his hands on her hips and leaned forward, closing his eyes. Their lips touched softly, then with more surety. He leaned in, pressing harder against her. A small sigh escaped her lips, and she pulled him closer.

  Their tongues touched, and John felt sure that there would never be another moment better.

  They pulled away, both breathing heavily.

  “Not bad for an American.” She smiled and looked away, the first awkward gesture John had ever seen her make.

  Then, John saw a horror from the deepest part of the worst hell.

  Harry.

  He stood ten feet behind Cindy, waving a hand. He had a giant smile on his face.

  “Hey,” Harry said, his voice just loud enough to cross the distance.

  John’s eyes flashed back to Cindy, who still looked away. He moved her head back, touching her chin with his finger. “Thank you.”

  “I’m still heeerreee.” Harry’s voice slashed through the shield John had tried to create by looking at her. “Kissing the girlfriend isn’t going to change anything.”

  “Can I walk you home?” John asked. He felt like he was about to unravel, trying to focus on Cindy and at the same time, having his mind feel like a hive of angry bees inhabited it. He was unable to understand what Harry was doing or planning to do.

  “Well, you’re sure as hell not leaving me here,” she said, her brilliant smile returning.

  She took his hand, and they began walking down the sidewalk again.

  John heard Harry’s footsteps behind them.

  Knock, knock, knock on the pavement. John didn’t look, but he thought Harry was wearing cowboy boots. The motherfucker had put on cowboy boots so John would hear them as he walked.

  John picked up his pace and felt some resistance from Cindy.

  “In a hurry?”

  He didn’t slow down. “No, just cold.”

  They crossed the relatively short distance from the theater to her dorm. Harry kept following quietly except for the repeated clacks of his boots on the sidewalk.

  “Are you okay?” Cindy asked as they stood in front of her building. “I know it’s dark, but you look pale.”

  “Yeah, I’m okay. Just don’t feel well all of a sudden.”

  Cindy turned her head sideways to study him, perhaps judging if he was telling the truth. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Of course. Mini-golf,” John said, trying to smile.

  She leaned over and gave him a light kiss on the cheek, then walked into her dorm.

  John stood outside under the light pole and waited as Harry approached from behind.

  “She’s perfect,” Harry said.

  “For me?”

  “No, no. For us.”

  “No.”

  John lay in his bed with his eyes closed. He said the word quietly. Inside him, an emotional tornado raged.

  “Why not?”

  “You know why, Harry. The same reason I won’t kill my mom. I care about her.”

  “You barely know her,” Harry countered. “You’ve known her for a month or so. Just because you gave her a little kiss doesn’t mean you can’t kill her.”

  John didn’t want to open his eyes. He didn’t want to see Harry on the other side of the room. He could hear pages flipping as Harry moved through his book, holding this conversation with the same focus as someone discussing the weather.

  “I’m not going to do it. That’s all there is to it.”

  Harry sighed, a long exhalation that embodied one clear phrase. Stop being such a child, John.

  “It’ll be painless. One bullet and she’s gone. You don’t even have to stick around and watch what happens after.”

  “I don’t want you to ever come around us again. Do you understand that?”

  “I understand the words, yes, but I think she’s the one, John. Do you understand that? I think that we’re going to have tons of fun with her. I mean, imagine if she lets you fuck her first. You lose your virginity twice in one night. If that’s not fun, I don’t know what is.”

  John flew off the bed and across the room as if propelled by a rocket. He barely understood he had moved, simply reacting. Anger had driven him to a state he hadn’t known before. The rest of the room blacked out. John saw only Harry, the fat, fleshy ghost from his mind. He faced him, inches from Harry’s nose, and he could smell the stench. Rotting meat, a smell on Harry’s breath that spoke of dead and diseased things.

  “I’ll kill you. How about that? I’ll fucking murder you, Harry. Then I’ll put you back out in that ocean. This time you can float forever, but you won’t be able to scream because when I slit your throat, I’ll make sure I cut your goddamn vocal cords too.”

  Harry looked on, his non-burst pupil expanding to almost the same size as his wrecked eye. “You watched me, didn’t you? That’s why I’m here. You watched me drown, and you didn’t do anything. Oh, Lord have mercy. You’re more fucked up than I thought, John. What did it feel like when you watched your best friend die at sea? How long would it have taken you to get help? My parents were two hundred feet away, weren’t they? How long does it take to get a lifeguard out there? It would have been a tight race, no doubt, but I think I might have lived. Do you?”

  “I’ll do it again, Harry. I’ll kill you.”

  “How did it feel?” Harry pressed. “Do you remember?”

  The emotions rolled back and rose higher than the anger rushing toward Harry. Watching him die was the greatest thing John had ever seen. Hearing his screams and knowing that no one would save him. No lifeboats, no lifeguards, and in the end, no life.

  “Yes.” Harry smirked. “Yes, that’s right. Remember it.”

  In the end, Harry’s screams weakened, lost in his fight to stay above water. Then the water came in through his mouth and filled his young lungs, suffocating him. John had seen it all, watching like a bird of prey circling a small wounded animal.

  “You see, John? We’re not very different. You’ve just forgotten what it feels like. We can get her, just like you got me. Why don’t we give it a try?”

  “I’ll kill you first,” John said. “I swear it.”

  They both understood that might have been a lie.

  John,

  I hope things are well. I miss you more than I thought would be possible. I think about your smile all the time, even though it’s a rare thing to see. I hope you’re smiling more over there.

  Alicia told me you called her. She said you had a girlfriend. Is that true? Said she’s a blonde? She wasn’t too happy about that, but then again, blondes have more fun, from what I hear. Don’t have too much fun, if you understand what I’m saying.

  Your father sends his love. He’ll probably write you soon. He’s not as free with the pen as I am. I know people write with computers, but I think writing longhand will let me gather my thoughts.

  Before I go on, I want you to destroy this letter when you’re done reading it. I don’t mean throw it in the trash. I mean burn it. I’m going to say things I should have said a long time ago, but I just didn’t have the courage. Your father might have if he knew these things, but I didn’t. I can’t face them, not truly, despite what I’ve been doing with Dr. Vondi. So, you burn this, and don’t talk to me about it again, okay?

  You asked about my mother in our phone call, and I dismissed the question. I shouldn’t have, but I did. Now, here I am, trying to make up for it, but still too chickenshit to pick up the phone and call.

  I’m scared, John.

  I’m scared because of the animal I saw behind the house a few years ago.

  I’m scared because Harry died while you were there.

  I’m scared because I’ve seen what my bloodline is capable of.

  After you burn this letter, you’re not to repeat anything I say in it. Not to your father and not to your sister. Not to your girlfriend. Not to Dr. Vondi. No one. I can’t be more clear about this. What I write here is between us, and neither of us is going to share it with another soul. As scared as I am for you and this situation, I trust you more than I can put into words because I love you.

  My mother killed my father, John. She didn’t kill him as in wore him down over the course of a lifetime. She put a butcher’s knife in his neck and left it there for me to see when I came home. I’m lucky I’m not in an insane asylum, to be honest. I thank your father for that and my own resiliency.

  She did a lot more, though, John.

  Things I haven’t told anyone.

  She would bring men home, presumably for sex, and they just disappeared, not from me but from the world.

  I’m going to tell you about one episode because I want you to understand why I’m so scared. One and only one. Then we have to decide how to move forward.

  I was sixteen years old. I know that for sure because when I was a kid, I counted the days—literally, the days—until I would legally be an adult.

  Nine hundred and seventy-two days until Lori turned eighteen.

  She counted the days in a small notebook. She didn’t write anything else in it. She simply flipped the page and knocked the number down by one. Tomorrow would be nine hundred and seventy-one.

  She wondered if prisoners did the same thing, except instead of a notebook, they perhaps carved it into their cell walls. Lori couldn’t do that. Even the notebook she kept might be too risky if Clara found it. She hid it well but couldn’t bear not having a tiny ray of light at the end of this dark, horrendous tunnel. She tried to focus on that light because things came out of nowhere in this tunnel and hit her all the time. Knocked her over as she walked and pummeled her face, leaving bruises that wouldn’t fade but never killing her.

 

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