After school the next day, Rubes and I walk over to the cemetery. To spend some time on Jamie’s bench, yes, but also for a bit of recon. I want to check out the area where Mr. Showalter was on the day Dad so rudely interrupted my truancy. I want to know more about him, this strange man who—bam!—appeared out of nowhere, and now keeps turning up. And holds my fate in his hands.

Google won’t help me much; all I can figure out is

1. There are a whole lot of Showalters, none listed in my town, and

2. That I can’t for the life of me remember what Dr. Folger had said his first name was. If he said it at all.

So, recon. Going back to where he was, I find two Showalter graves, right next to each other. One of them is a double grave, the kind with two overlapping hearts.

It says

Roy Showalter                                           Donna Showalter

          November 11, 1961–                       December 30, 1964–October 13, 2005

You were born together, and together

you shall be forevermore.

You shall be together when the white wings

of death scatter your days.

Aye, you shall be together even in the

silent memory of God.

Holy crap. Is this possible? Was Donna Showalter his wife? And he has this grave reserved for himself? Talk about commitment. If he is Roy Showalter, he’s completely given up on ever remarrying, or even having a girlfriend again. I mean, who’s going to date a guy whose cemetery space is already waiting, right next to his dead wife?

And. If this is his wife, Mr. Showalter must have chosen the epitaph. Gruff Captain Possum picked out this crazy tender love poem. I imagine him reciting it to the engraver. Standing there with his possum and his dirty fingernails, having known this poem, having chosen it. It just doesn’t go with my image of him.

The grave next to the double heart is also a Showalter.

David Leonard Showalter

June 28, 1990 – October 13, 2005

Oh, man. Fifteen years old. His son? With the same date of death as his wife. So his wife and son died on the same day? Must have been an accident. Something sudden. But what?

One thing’s for sure, it didn’t happen in Norwich. A tragedy like this, even if it was just a crazy fluke—actually, especially if it was a crazy fluke—everyone would know about it. Everyone. And these names are new to me.

Now that I have first names, and dates, I go home and Google it again. Ruby curls up on my feet while I tap out the search and scan the results. First hit is a news story from the Binghamton Press & Sun Bulletin. It’s kind of a long one, with a byline, instead of just a snippet-type accident report.

Reading it, I go numb and cold.

MOTHER AND SON DEAD IN APPARENT MURDER-SUICIDE

OCTOBER 14, 2005

BRISBEN, NEW YORK—Local painter Donna Showalter, 40, and son Leon Showalter, 15, were found dead yesterday in their home on Route 12. Police report that Leon Showalter shot his mother to death, using a handgun registered to his father, Roy Showalter. Roy Showalter reported hearing “four or five” gunshots as he returned from his job at Spence Green Architects in Johnson City. Mr. Showalter claims he found his wife dead and his son in a “manic state,” allegedly threatening to shoot his father. The elder Mr. Showalter tried to calm his son, but Leon Showalter turned the gun on himself. His cause of death is listed as a fatal self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

Police report that the gun was kept in a lockbox in the basement of the Showalter’s residence, and that the lock showed signs of tampering. A neighbor, who declined to be identified, said that Leon Showalter was known to have suffered from bipolar disorder. “He was a great kid, real smart, but you could tell he was always either really up or very depressed,” the neighbor said.

The county district attorney says no criminal charges have been filed.

Suddenly chilled, I hug myself.

“Are you done yet? Get off the computer.” Jeremy in the doorway. Impeccable timing, as usual.

“Go away.”

“You get five more minutes.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“Or what?”

“Or…there will be dire consequences.”

“Ha. You got nothing. No leverage.”

“I mean it. Get off the computer. I need it.”

I close the door and prop the chair under the doorknob.

Mr. Showalter had found his wife dead. Had seen the gun in his son’s hands. Knew his son had killed his wife. Then watched his son shoot himself.

It’s beyond awful. How can a person survive something like that?

Is there a comparison chart of horrible experiences? Losing your son and your wife—and knowing that your son murdered your wife and then committed suicide—isn’t that even worse than watching your best friend die?

It’s totally morbid to compare. But that’s what people do, isn’t it? Life is a constant comparison—yourself to others. You figure out who you are, how good or bad you have it, in relation to other people’s situations and experiences.

Like Stenn: he has it great. Never been through anything majorly bad, has a family who loves him, gobs of money, friends, private school. My brother’s got a pretty sweet deal, too: no major traumas, decent parents, friends, that stuff. To be honest, I had it pretty good, too, BJD. But the JD changed everything.

Did Roy have it good before his wife and son died? Or does he come from the school of hard knocks? Does that make it easier? If you had a crappy childhood that made you tough, maybe it’s easier to deal with a tragedy.

So what’s my theory here? Abused kids have it easier? Sure, that’s not problematic at all.

The newspaper said Mr. Showalter had worked in an architect’s office. As a janitor? Or something else? Did he used to be Captain Successful Architect until one day he went home and found his life completely shattered?

One thing’s for sure: Captain Possum has been through hell and back.