Chapter Seven

Glass Tomb

VINCENT PUT OAKLAND in his rearview mirror. He continued down Route 8 after that, to further distance himself from the city. A fog had settled over his mind, and while he reacted to traffic lights and signs, he had trouble focusing his thoughts. Only when he saw the sign welcoming him to Butler, “A Great Place To Live,” did he realize where he’d taken himself. He drove to Elm Street and parked in front of the one-story house he had called home for the first eighteen years of his life.

Henry’s truck was gone. He’d probably left for work a couple of hours ago. Good. Vincent couldn’t deal with Henry right now. He just needed to rest. He took the spare key from under a fake rock in the front yard and made a beeline to his bedroom. He locked the door and lay down in bed. The comforter reeked of dust, but it was soft, and before he knew it, he drifted to sleep.

He awoke to the beating of a drum. No. Not a drum. Knocking. Fist on wood. Henry demanded that he unlock the door. Vincent didn’t see much of a point in doing so. There was nothing Henry could tell him to change what he did and didn’t do and everything that led to James’s death.

The popcorn ceiling above his bed had turned to gold in the setting sun. How many hours of his life had he spent staring at those damn plaster hills and valleys? As a child, he’d looked for shapes and characters in the haphazard design. When he got older, he came to resent it. He saw it every morning and every night. Day in and day out for so long that the sight bookended every day of his monotonous life. Sometimes, it’d brought tears to his eyes. Knowing he’d have to get up the next day and face it.

Then, he went to college and met James, and for the first time in a long time, the ceiling didn’t matter. What mattered was who was in his bed, holding him. Loving him. He didn’t need to dread the next day because James was there alongside him to face whatever life threw at them. The details melted in the warmth of his love.

But here Vincent was again—watcher of the ceiling. Each line and crack in the plaster painfully clear. More knocking. Henry’s voice rose to a roar. He’d break the fucking door down if Vincent didn’t open it. He wasn’t joking. He’d do it.

There was a bang, followed by the sound of splintering wood, but it seemed too distant to be his door. Maybe Henry had broken something else in his rage. He was prone to tossing a glass or leaving a fist in the drywall when he worked himself up enough. No, it was his door. Because Henry’s heated face eclipsed the ceiling above the bed like a red moon.

“Do you know how fucking worried I was? Why didn’t you answer me? Huh? Answer me!” His breath reeked of whiskey.

Even with Henry in his face, sweat dripping and spit flying, he seemed so far away. Vincent felt like he had fallen through the mattress and floor. Past the cellar and deep into the earth in a glass cylinder. Too far down to reach Henry now. So, he watched him through the glass and waited for him to leave so that he could return to his post. It’d be dark soon, and the ceiling would be covered in shadows.

Henry didn’t leave. He continued to yell and even shake him—only to explode in rage when Vincent didn’t respond. At some point, he left, and there was a crash and a string of curses before silence filled the air.

When the shadows gave way to complete darkness, he saw a flash, and the ceiling returned to its ivory color. Henry had turned on the light. He was back, veins bulging in his red forehead. The smell of whiskey was so sharp that Vincent might as well have sniffed it straight from the bottle. “You gotta get up, Vinny. You hear me? You aren’t a kid anymore, and I won’t do this again.”

Again?

That was right. He’d taken on this role before. He’d kept watch of the ceiling after his mother had passed. So much of that time had become hazy in his memory. He couldn’t remember how long he’d remained in bed or what had finally broken the spell. All that was clear was Henry’s misguided attempts to scream him back into existence.

Henry lifted him into a seated position. There was pain, but it, too, seemed somewhere on the other side of the glass. Henry swayed back and forth. “You’re gonna get up, or I’ll, I’ll call an ambulance. Have you 302’d. Remember what that is?”

Vincent’s mother had been an ER nurse before she got sick. He remembered what getting 302’d meant. Involuntary evaluation and treatment to a psychiatric unit. A first-class trip to the funny farm. Or, more accurately, a bluff slurred from a drunk man. A part of him wondered if he needed it. If they could fix whatever had come loose in his mind after he learned what became of James.

“Fine. Have it your way, then.” Henry let go of him, and he fell back on the bed. He felt the pain that time. Like someone had knocked the wind out of him. He coughed as tears filled his eyes.

Henry retreated. “Shit—I forgot. I didn’t mean to—”

He fell backward, disappearing from Vincent’s vision. Crack. Like someone hit a baseball out of the park. There was a dresser beside his bed. Henry could have smacked his head on one of the corners.

A hand grazed his arm and sank into the mattress. Henry pulled himself to his feet with a grunt. Vincent couldn’t see him. He must have stood up by the headboard, out of Vincent’s field of vision. Henry breathed heavily, but he didn’t say a word. Something warm hit Vincent’s face.

Drip.

Blood?

Drip.

Had Henry’s skull met one of those corners?

Drip.

If so, he’d need help.

Drip.

Such an injury could be fatal.

Each time the warm liquid hit his head, he crawled a little farther from his glass tomb. Drawn back to his childhood bedroom to ensure that his inaction didn’t result in another death. He just needed to turn his head back and check on Henry. Such a simple action seemed gruelingly difficult now. Like he was moving through quicksand.

He expected a dent in the back of Henry’s head or a bloody hole above his ear. What he found was Henry, leaning over his bed, not covered in blood, but in tears. He wiped them dry with the cuff of his flannel. “I’m so sorry.”

 

VINCENT AWOKE TO the sound of water hitting plastic. Thin drywall separated his bedroom from the bathroom. Henry must be in the shower. The morning light gave the ceiling a golden hue. His throat was dry, and he needed to piss, but more than anything, he wanted a cup of coffee.

He smelled it brewing in the kitchen. Strong motor oil coffee that he’d been raised on and made him think nearly all other coffee was watered down. It drew his sore body from his bed and down the hall to the kitchen.

All the mugs were still laid out on the counter. They used to be in the cabinet above the coffee pot, but when his mother’s condition worsened and she required a wheelchair, Henry had modified the place to ensure everything was in her reach.

He’d made a whole weekend of it. Enlisting a few of his work friends to lend a hand with bribes of pizza and beer. Ramps had been crafted. Shelves had been built. Everything had been made accessible to her. Not that she’d enjoyed the modifications for long. Within a month, they had to move her to a hospice for round-the-clock care. She had passed away three weeks later.

She’d been gone for almost five years, and yet the mugs remained on the counter. They were covered in a layer of dust, and the cabinet above the coffee pot was still empty. Vincent hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but he had walked up the ramp on the porch to come inside. And the living room was still arranged in a manner to make sure she could fit her wheelchair around the furniture.

Henry hadn’t changed a thing.

Vincent grabbed an old mug shaped like a whale—the tail was bent back to form the handle. He ran it under the tap to rinse out the dust and poured himself a cup of coffee. The whole milk in the fridge had expired, so he drank it black. He’d nearly finished the cup when Henry, face red and shining from his hot shower and dressed for work, walked into the kitchen.

If Henry was surprised to see him, he hid it well. He dumped half the pot in a tall aluminum thermos. “You’re up.”

Vincent could see the white bottom of his mug through what little coffee he had left. “I am.”

“Well, I gotta head out.” He came closer, as if to pat Vincent on the back, before he thought better of it. “I’ll pick up wings for dinner.”

“Sounds good.”

Just before he left the room, Henry stopped like he’d forgotten something. “By the way, tub’s there if you want to clean up.”

 

VINCENT GOT HENRY’S not-so-subtle hint. He finished another cup of coffee and went to the bathroom to assess the damage in the mirror above the sink. His curly black hair was greasy and pushed to one side of his head. His skin was waxy and pale except the dark rings around his eyes. His cheeks were deflated like week-old birthday balloons.

The sour smell of his sweaty body hit him the moment he took off his clothes. He hadn’t had a proper shower or bath since the attack. Cuts and bruises covered his skin, which hung a little looser than it had two weeks ago.

He looked almost as terrible as he felt. Had it not been for the smell, he probably would have skipped the bath altogether to see how long it would take for his outward appearance to reflect what he was experiencing beneath the surface.

He filled the tub with hot water. Steam rose in thin ribbons. He dipped his hand in, and it came out red from the heat. He got into the tub, wrapped his hands around his knees, and pulled them to his chest. He rested his chin on the tops of his knees. The water felt good on his sore body. He focused on the momentary relief it offered and let his mind wander. When the tub went cold, he filled it up again with hot water.

He had tried to take a bubble bath with James shortly after they moved in together. They never had the chance when they lived in the dorms. However, the tub in their apartment was so small that, no matter which way they tried to stuff themselves into it, one of them was left out of the water. After they had tried enough contortions to give the Olympic gymnastics team a run for their money, James had gotten out of the tub and sat beside him. He’d washed Vincent down with a sponge and rinsed him off.

James was usually so heavy-handed, but not then. He scrubbed Vincent like he was a china doll. Vincent would give anything to feel his gentle touch just one more time. He shut his eyes and lay back in the tub. He tried to picture James kneeling beside the bathtub with a steaming sponge in hand. He could almost feel him rubbing his chest with it in a slow, circular motion. Like James was in the room with him now, working his way down to Vincent’s stomach.

Vincent let his fantasy die there. Thinking about it any longer would only devastate him when he had to return to reality, but the sensation didn’t disappear. The sponge continued past his belly button. Vincent forced his eyes open. James stood over him, smiling down at the water.

Vincent followed his gaze, expecting to see his own body submerged in the warm water. But the tub was no longer filled with water. Thick red blood had replaced it. James laughed, his hands covered in two red gloves of blood. Before Vincent could try to make a run for it, James grabbed his hair and dunked him in the blood.

Liquid flooded his nose and mouth. He dug his fingernails into James’s hands, but his grip didn’t waver. James pulled him back to the surface. Vincent spat the blood out of his mouth and struggled for air. “Please.”

“You’re not in a bargaining position.” It wasn’t James; it was the tall man. He’d found him to finish the job. Vincent was forced under again, and when he came up for air, the stocky man stood over him. Then the kid. And then back to James. He didn’t let him come up for air this time. James held his head below the surface. He was going to drown him. Vincent fought against the inability to breathe for as long as his sore lungs could bear before he was forced to let the blood consume him.

 

HE AWOKE WITH a start. Somehow, he was still submerged, but there was no force holding him under. He sat up and hacked up water. Freezing cold water. No blood in sight. The relief was instantaneous, but before he let his guard down, he peered around the room, arms raised over his head to prevent an assailant from grabbing his hair.

The bathroom was empty.

He must have dozed off at some point and slid under the water, and his mind had found a creative way to incorporate it into his dream. It’d felt so real he was almost surprised to find his scalp didn’t hurt when he ran his hands through his hair.

He drained the tub and finished washing up in the shower. Whatever clothes he didn’t take with him to college were still in his dresser and closet. He put on an old French Club T-shirt and a pair of gym shorts before climbing in bed. He remained there until Henry returned with hot wings, but he didn’t dare fall asleep.

 

DAYS PASSED, AND Vincent grew used to Henry’s routine. Coffee in the morning. Some combination of bar food for dinner. Henry drank whiskey after dinner. Sometimes, just a glass or two. Other times, half a bottle. He fell asleep on the couch most nights, his bloated face changing colors in the TV light. Excluding a few minor variations, he stuck strictly to this schedule day in and day out.

Vincent joined him for coffee in the morning. Then, he napped until Henry got home a little after five with dinner. They ate in front of the TV, and Vincent returned to bed before Henry got too drunk. The mundane repetition of it all was comforting. He understood how people like Henry could spend their lives in an empty cycle.

Vincent considered returning to his apartment. He could create his own routine. Preserve all the relics James left behind. Stop time in the apartment so that he never had to live without him. But memories weren’t the only thing waiting for him back in Pittsburgh. His attackers were still out there, probably searching for him.

He attempted to put the thought out of his mind. It didn’t stop him from waking up drenched in sweat or jumping at any foreign sound, but it did enable him to make it through the day without falling apart. He almost got through dinner one night without thinking about it before the news report started.

The camera zoomed in on a grave-looking anchor who sat behind a news desk. Her hands were folded over a piece of paper in front of her. “The Pittsburgh Police are urging college students to be vigilant after two University of Pittsburgh students were attacked in Schenley Park in what is believed to be a gang initiation that involves targeting local college students. We have—”

Before she finished her sentence, the screen cut to a baseball game. Vincent thought there was some kind of technical error until he saw the remote in Henry’s hand. “That’s enough of that.”

Vincent’s chest felt tight. “Can you turn that back on?”

“I gotta check the score.”

“It’s three to seven. Change it back.”

“What good is that going to do you?” Henry set the remote down on the coffee table. He dipped a hot wing in the puddle of ranch dressing on his plate and took a bite out of it.

Clutching his ribs, Vincent leaned over and snatched the remote before Henry had the chance to stop him. He flipped back to the news channel, but they were talking about traffic delays. He tossed the remote back to Henry and went to his room. He couldn’t believe what they had said. Henry must have turned off the channel before they explained what had really happened.

He pulled his phone out of his backpack. Of course, it was dead. He plugged it into the wall, and as soon as it had enough of a charge to turn on, he searched for the story online. He barely typed it in Google when his phone was overwhelmed with alerts. Texts from classmates and casual friends who expressed their sympathies. Emails from Pitt staff and faculty. Missed calls from his work supervisors, Sam, and Henry.

He ignored them and searched for the article. He hadn’t missed much of the story. The police were actually going forward with the asinine theory that he and James had been attacked because they were Pitt students. He was ready to toss his phone. But then he remembered that Tillman had given him their contact information.

Vincent dumped his bag out on the floor and sifted through the mess. He found the small white card stuck between two pages of one of his schoolbooks. He copied the number into his phone and called. Each time it rang, he found the tightness in his chest getting worse. Had they listened to a single word he said? Clearly, they hadn’t. They’d created a narrative and forced what had happened to him and James into it.

The call went to an automated voice mail. His blood was boiling. “Targeting Pitt students, are you fucking kidding me? Where the hell—”

“Vincent, is that you?” Tillman’s voice filled his ear.

He was ready to scream. “Yes.”

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I saw the news report. Pitt students. Really?” It was all he could say without exploding on her.

“As we discussed, we don’t know their exact motive, so we are ensuring everyone’s safety in the meantime.”

Ralbovsky said something in the background that he couldn’t make out. Tillman shushed him and said, “Is there anything else we can do for you?”

Vincent hung up. There was nothing they could do for him. Not when they treated him like a lunatic and dismissed anything that didn’t fit the story they wanted to tell. He remembered why those fuckers had attacked them. He remembered covering James in dirt. He remembered James carrying him to the trail. He remembered how that person in his hospital room had wanted to strangle him, and he remembered seeing the man in the lobby.

He needed answers. The unknown would peck away at his mind until he went completely insane or ended up like Henry, trapped in a shrine of a past that could never be reclaimed. He couldn’t depend on the police to help him, so he’d have to find his own answers. Everything seemed to go back to the night of the attack, but the only other person who knew what had happened was James. And Vincent’s last memories of James didn’t align with what the police told him.

He’d seen how Ralbovsky and Tillman distorted the motives of their attackers. They could’ve been just as inconsistent regarding how they had found him and James. Vincent didn’t know why they’d lie, but they weren’t being forthcoming with what they knew, which made him wonder what else they could have tailored to fit their story. The only problem was, besides the police, no one else had seen James that night.

Except whoever had identified his body.