I tore open the top of the duffel bag and grabbed the first hard object I could feel. In the corner, Christopher was pressed against the wall and slowly sliding down to the floor, still shaking his head, still swatting the air, still whimpering.
"My perfect child, do you not remember? They're all gone."
"SHUT UP!" I screamed, heaving the skull at his face. It struck him hard in the mouth with an ugly crack!, then fell to the floor and rolled toward me, stopping just a few feet away with its empty eye sockets staring up at my face: How can you be a part of this?
Christopher was now covering his head with his hands, his whimpers giving way to groans.
Grendel slowly leaned his head forward, spitting blood and a couple of teeth from his mouth. "They have all been dead for quite some time, Christopher—but of course you have known this all along, have you not?"
Christopher cried out, shuddered, and began rocking back and forth, back and forth.
I grabbed another skull and threw it at Grendel, this time hitting him in the stomach; he never blinked.
"Your father was so distraught over having lost you that he began drinking, remember?"
"…got the address…" whispered Christopher. "Mom will… make us something to eat… no one leaves her table unfed…"
"He became a drunk, my boy. We have talked about this but, still, you play these little games with yourself. I never appreciated that. After all, games are my job."
This time I grabbed a long bone and moved toward him, striking him against the side of the head, but still he kept talking.
"…could not forgive himself for losing you, Christopher—"
—another blow to the side of his head—
—"…and so he kept on drinking, drinking, drinking, until he finally drove Paul away, remember? Paul"—
—this time I hit him in the throat, which caught him off-guard and made him spit up a little, but then he took a breath at was at it all over again—
—"…so little brother joined the Army just in time for the first Gulf War, and once over there, promptly got himself blown up when a terrorist drove a truck filled with explosives right into his barracks"—
—I kept striking at his face with the bone, screaming incomprehensibly to drown out his voice—
—"…he burned to death in the fire, remember how we talked about what it is like to burn to death, how the brain is the last thing to go so you feel every last sensation of your body being consumed? You could not believe how horrible it"—
—back and forth Christopher rocked, weeping and shaking—
—again and again I struck Grendel with the bone, screaming until my throat was torn-raw and wet—
—and still Grendel kept talking louder and louder until his screams equaled my own—
—"…and losing both his sons was too much for John Robert Matthews to bear, so he began drinking twice, thrice as much, remember? Remember, Christopher? And all the while, your saintly mother tried to hold what was left of her family together but your father, he was so obsessed with his guilt he paid her no mind, at least, until the night he came home so drunk he could not see the road in front of him, let alone YOUR MOTHER STANDING OUTSIDE WAITING FOR HIM, AND WHEN HE REALIZED THAT HE HAD KILLED HER, WHEN HE REALIZED—"
—"…good cook," whimpered Christopher, "Mom's always been a real good cook…"—
—"…THAT HIS FAMILY WAS GONE—"
—"Shut your filthy fucking mouth you worthless pile-of-puke-piece-of-shit!" I screamed, hammering the bone against the top of his skull, spattering blood and tissue—
—"…HE TOOK HIS OLD SHOTGUN AND—"
—"…thought it was ours," said Christopher, "...it looked gray, I swear to God it looked gray…"—
—I threw down the bone and grabbed Grendel's throat with both my hands and began squeezing with everything I had, slamming his head back against the wall and driving my knee into his groin as he clawed at my face with his free hand, drawing a little blood, and I jerked forward, headbutting him, and he spit blood into my eyes but I kept squeezing until his hand fell to his side and his mouth began to bubble spit and blood and these little ragged wheezing noises began to escape and I liked it, I liked it, God forgive me I liked the feeling of his life slipping out under my hands, but then Christopher grabbed me from behind and pulled me off, both of us falling back onto the duffel bag which quickly spilled half its contents under our weight and we lay there on a bed of bones both of us shaking and crying.
After a few moments, I managed to get on my knees and Christopher to his.
I cupped his face in my hands and looked into his eyes. "I'm… I'm sorry, Christopher…God I'm… I'm so sorry…"
"…me too… I… I sh-sh-should've… should've remembered…"
I turned his face up toward mine. "You knew all along?"
His eyes filled with tears and he nodded. Once. Very quickly. "There's… there's knowing… and then there's knowing…."
And in that moment I remembered what Arnold had said to me back in the hospital.
…People can change a lot over that long. They can… they can forget about things if forgetting makes it easier for them to go on living….
Good God. Had Arnold known? I thought he'd been talking about Christopher's family. Had he been trying to tell me?
"What am I supposed to do now?" said Christopher. He wrapped his arms around my waist and buried his head against my chest. "Where am I supposed to go?"
"Hang on, buddy," I said, stroking the back of his head. "Shhh. C'mon, there-there, c'mon…"
"…I thought he was lying to me… I thought it was just his way of keeping me from… from hoping…"
"…all right, all right, that's it, c'mon…"
"…but I knew… I knew… but I couldn't know! I couldn't. The other kids, they needed me to be… to b-be in charge…"
"…I know…"
"…and they… they looked up to me… they depended on me… but I c-c-couldn't…
couldn't let them know…"
"…shhh, c'mon…"
"…so I couldn't let myself know… I couldn't… oh god, I just couldn't…"
"…I'm so sorry, Christopher…"
"…because what reason was there for… for going on… h-h-how w-was I supposed to find a reason for… for any of us to g-go on living if I… if I admitted that… that…"
"…so sorry, I'm so sorry… so sorry…"
His grip around my waist tightened and he spluttered against my jacket. "…ohgod, Mark… what… what am I gonna do? Where am I supposed to go now?"
"…we'll find a place for you. Tanya and me, we'll find a place for you, I swear it, I promise…"
"…you're the only friend I've got, Mark… you're the only friend I've ever had…"
"…count on it…"
"…what am I gonna do?"
"…we'll think of something. We will. I promise."
And I held him. His broken spirit. His loneliness. His helplessness. Tightly against me I held all of this, wishing he could feel protected, needed, worthwhile.
Herb Thomas had told me the whole story. How John Matthews' drinking had gotten so out of control that Ellen had threatened to have him committed to a detox clinic; how Paul had joined the Army and been killed in Iraq; how John Matthews had accidentally struck and killed his wife while driving drunk; and how he had later shot himself right after calling the police to report Ellen's death. The business had gone to Ellen's brother, who wanted no part of it and so sold it to Herb Thomas, who later expanded everything to include a motel and car wash and eventually let his nephew Larry and Larry's wife Beth buy into the business.