The McPherson’s had always been so close that it seemed strange to have to use a bike or a car to get there at all. I’d spent so much time with Randy at the Y, and thinking about what his life must be like, that the house seemed only an extension of our own. The car hummed under me, and the radio played something in the background, but I wasn’t listening.
Instead, what I was hearing was that high pitched, near-squeal laughter that little boys have before they get teased for it, and start to laugh like their fathers. I was listening to the sound of a birthday party in my head.
When Randy turned seven, he’d asked to have his birthday party at the Y pool. His mother set it up with Mrs. Dryer. I knew she had to talk to Mr. Baxter, the Y director, too. I’d never seen him. The only thing I’d ever heard was Mr. Roger blast the man. “That damned pencil pusher,” he’d start off saying, then go into a rant about trying to squeeze blood from a turnip. ‘Still don’t know what that means,’ I thought, stopping at a 4-way. One of the signs had been riddled with tiny dents; they were BB holes.
So, ten kids from Randy’s class wound up running and yelling and laughing for a few hours. Mrs. Dryer told me that Mr. Baxter had asked me to be there. She said that they would pay me to lifeguard that Saturday evening. They closed down the Y, and opened up the pool to the kids. I was supposed to be there to remind the children to be safe around the water. What I wound up being was an extra springy diving board. “Throw me, throw me!” they kept asking. All except Randy. He was scared to be thrown like that. I could see in his eyes that he wanted to, but he was terrified.
The one time he did approach me, while most of the other kids were playing volleyball at the other end, he seemed so tiny. I always remember him being so small.
“Mikey, could—umm—,” he started, looking away.
“Yeah.” I put my hands up, linked together at the fingers. He put his tiny feet into my hands and I said, “remember, tuck forward as soon as you can.” He nodded. I lowered my hands some, then counted down from three. At ‘one’, I brought my hands up toward my chest as fast as I could. I felt him tense, and then he wasn’t in my hands anymore. I heard the splash behind me.
I looked up to see Randy’s mom staring our direction. She’d been watching the whole time. Something in me expected to see her face contort in horror. I expected that something had gone wrong, and there would be screaming any second. I knew he’d hit the side of the pool and was drowning.
Instead, what I heard was his laughter. It was this strange thing; he often grinned, but almost never laughed. I turned to see him smiling at me. His whole face was lit up.
Pulling up to the curb at the McPherson house, what I remembered was not only the laughter, but the empty. My hands felt the emptiness of that moment again; all of his weight had been resting in my hands, and then suddenly, it had gone.
THIRTY-TWO
I don’t know how long I sat in the car, just watching the house. I kept thinking ‘turn around’ over and over. I wanted to leave. Something like my father’s voice came up from inside me, though, and said ‘this has got to be done’. He’d always tried to instill that in me. I must have been about eight or so when I asked him “Daddy, when do I get to be a man?” It was one of those purely ridiculous things that kids ask that when you start to pick it apart isn’t so ridiculous.
This was back when he and I were still good. We’d been on our way back from the grocery store, or one of the other billion inane errands we were always on together. Back then he seemed to want me around more than he wanted mom, even. We’d just finished singing a song that was on the radio. I remember that he would stop and let me take the high-pitched parts.
He reached over and turned the radio down. Without looking at me, he sighed, then said “Mikey, a man is someone who does what he has to do, even when he doesn’t want to.” He was using that voice. The one he used reading bed time stories. I wanted that voice to go on forever. It seemed like he might stop there, so I started thinking of ways to get him to keep talking. I knew it had to be something that would get him to keep using that voice, though. If it was too silly, he’d switch into his regular voice with a laugh.
“Things like what?” I’d asked. It was the best I could come up with.
He laughed, and reached over to tug the bill of my baseball cap downward. I knew I’d failed, but that it was okay. “Just—things, Mikey. Just things,” he’d said.
It was that voice I was hearing in my head; my father before the change telling me that I must do this. ‘Before what?’ I asked myself, but there was no answer. I hadn’t really expected there to be one.
I got out of the car and walked to the door. The second I set foot on Pete’s lawn, though, I knew something was wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I raised my hand to knock on the front door, and saw that it was already open a crack. It seemed like something you’d see in a murder mystery. I brought my knocked once, just a short little rap on it. The door swung open with a creak.
From where I was standing, I could see the destruction. The front room was filled with little nicknacks, things Mrs. McPherson had collected over the years, the last time I’d come, just a few days ago. It looked as if an explosion had happened in between now and then.
‘Don’t go in’ I thought, but stepped in, anyway. It felt powerful. It felt as if some wave was pushing me in the door, a wave that would be so hard to resist. I didn’t think I had the strength to stop myself. The moment I was in the house, the air around me seemed to grow solid. I can’t find any other way to describe that. It was as if some great decision, something effecting millions of lives, had just been made final. Some powerful step had been taken. I thought that any moment, the door would slam closed. For that brief second, I understood the word ‘fate’.
I was afraid. Every step I took, my shoes crunched on some broken glass. I got past the front room, into the living room. It was worse. The chair had been overturned, and holes had been punched in it with something big and sharp. The boxes that had been so neatly piled up were toppled, and papers were scattered everywhere. The room was dark, and the air felt heavy.
I moved back to the bedrooms. They were just as ransacked. I kept expecting to see blood, but there was none.
The house was empty. I moved back to the living room. I thought about picking up the phone and dialing the police; that would be the natural thing to do in any sane world. Something in me reminded me that this situation, this town, this world, had stopped being sane a few days ago. I stood near the telephone, wondering what I should do.
A low, rumbling sound went through the whole house, shaking it. I started, and turned. I jumped again, and nearly yelled. The first time had been because of the thunder; the second was because the Sheriff was standing in the doorway.
“Well, doggy. Looks like that storm is gonna’ set in a might sooner than we all thought,” the Sheriff said, tipping his hat a few millimeters back on his forehead. He put his hand on his hip, and gestured with the other one, “Just get here?” he asked. He grinned with one side of his mouth; the rest of his face didn’t move.
“Yes,” I said.
“I reckon you came lookin’ for ol’ Pete?” He looked down at the floor, as if he was waiting or my answer.
“Yes,” I said, “but he’s not here.”
“Nope, I reckon not,” he said, and moved toward me. He stopped at a box that was on the floor, staring down at the papers. He squinted as though one were particularly important, then ‘hmmphed’, and looked up at me “I reckon not,” he repeated.