I was jolted awake by the ringing of the telephone. I took a quick glance at the clock wondering who would be calling me early on a Sunday morning. The phone felt heavy as I picked it up. I guessed maybe it was ex-Dad telling me one of those “work things” had come up, so he wouldn’t be taking me to the Lions football game. I wouldn’t be surprised by his broken promise; in fact, I almost expected constant disappointment from him.
“Hello.” My rough morning voice croaked into the receiver.
“Have you seen the paper?” It was Brody.
“What paper?” I asked.
“The fucking Flint Urinal, what do you think?” Brody shouted through the phone.
“No, why?” I said, as I recalled how I used to enjoy reading the newspaper. I got hooked when Mr. Daunt made us study current events in social studies. But since that night, I couldn’t bring myself to even glance at it. I was afraid of seeing my picture on the front page.
“There’s an obituary,” Brody said. He was struggling for words. “He had a name.”
“Who?”
“The Scarecrow had a name,” Brody answered. Before I could tell Brody I didn’t want to know any more, he dropped it like a bag of bricks. “Edward Shreve.”
There was silence on both ends of the phone, not mourning the death, but instead mourning the birth of Edward Shreve to both of us. He’d been the Scarecrow: not real, but a character without a true name. If he had a name, he was a person. If he was a person, then my name would have another word next to it: murderer.
“You know who that is?” Brody asked.
“It’s the Scarecrow,” I replied, wondering why Brody was acting so dense.
“No, dude, I think it’s Cell Phone Girl’s father,” Brody whispered.
“What?”
“Her name is Lauren Shreve. The paper said he’s from Swartz Creek and he had a daughter,” Brody said, as I recalled that Cell Phone Girl had missed school on Friday.
More silence, except for the sound of me cracking my knuckles.
“Dude, do you think I should tell her?” Brody said softly.
“Are you crazy?” The thought raised me out of bed. I checked to see that the door was closed, but wondered if Mom was on the other end of the phone. “Are you fucking crazy?”
I listened closely; the F word would smoke her out if she was listening in without permission. Instead, there was just more silence.
“I know, I know,” Brody repeated. “Don’t worry, Mick, what happened dies with us.”
I wanted to say, I understand you wanting to tell someone. I can’t bear this burden of knowing and not telling. But I know we can’t change the past; we gotta protect our futures. Like you said, this dies with us. Yet, as each day passed since that night, I wondered if telling would enable me to sleep, eat, or breathe again. I couldn’t speak of that night to anyone. We’d really only talked about it once. The next night, we’d got our stories together. No one ever suggested going to the police. No one spoke of the details. Our code of silence was complete.
“We can’t talk about this over the phone,” I offered. “Can you come over?”
“We’re going to church in, like, five minutes,” Brody replied.
“Stay away from confession,” I joked, to no response.
“Dude, calm down,” Brody replied, and I seethed in silence.
After a long pause, I asked, “What now?”
“You’re the center of all this,” Brody said aloud, which was what I guessed both he and Aaron had been thinking ever since that night. I wasn’t just the center; I was the point of the triangle.
“Brody, listen, it was Aaron who—” I started.
Brody cut off me. “It was your idea to find the Scarecrow.”
“But you were the one who—”
But Brody finished it. “Dude, it doesn’t matter now. It’s done.” I thought how wrong Brody was: because it was done, now these questions mattered more. They’re questions we’ve told ourselves we’ll never answer: to our families, the police, a judge, or a jury. In my heart, the fear of being caught crushed the guilt of what I’d done every single time.
“Fine, I’ll call Aaron,” I said.
“When’re you getting back from the game?” Brody asked. He tried to sound casual, like this was just another phone call. Like it was just another morning. Like nothing had changed.
“I don’t know, around six,” I said as I finally swung my feet onto the cold floor.
“Tell Aaron, we’ll shoot some pool tonight, figure this out,” Brody said.
“Fine.” I decided to save my words. I needed to teach myself not to talk. I wouldn’t say what I needed to, let alone what I wanted to, which was, Brody, what is there to figure out? They found the body. They know who he is. If they figured out who he was, then they can figure out how he died. How he was murdered. Then they can figure out who did it. Then our lives are over, too.
“I gotta go,” Brody said hurriedly, not even saying goodbye before he hung up.
I slammed the phone down in frustration at Brody, Aaron, and myself. I crawled out of bed, then headed to the bathroom. My head ached, not from drinking since I’ve not touched a drop since that night, but from lack of sleep. Once I fell asleep, I was fine, but I’d seen too many two in the mornings these past nights. When I woke up in the morning, I lay in the bed, anxiety like a heavy wet blanket I couldn’t shake off.
I’d barely made it to school each day. I pretended to care about classes. I couldn’t see the world in front of me: my vision was clouded with doubt and dread. I was in my personal hell, nothing but waiting. Just feeling utterly and totally helpless to change a thing.
I heard Mom in the kitchen, so I needed to join her and act normal. I wondered if she could see the battle that raged in me. Every day I had fought, and every day I had beat, the urge to return: I wanted to return to the scene of the crime, not to relive the horror and not to relieve my guilt, but to try to retrieve the lighter. But every day after school, I thought about getting off the bus at WindGate and getting back my life that was still buried in the ashes. That shadow of doubt, a huge, dark, thundering, hovering mass of suspicion, hung over me more than anything—more than the guilt, more than the regret—perhaps matched only by fear. Fear that I would break and talk, and doubt that both Aaron and Brody would stay silent. Aaron, I didn’t trust: Aaron kept his true history from Brody and me. If you lied about one thing, you would lie about anything. I knew Aaron was a survivor. As I dialed his number, I wondered if that instinct would trump all others, even friendship.
“Hello?” Aaron’s mom’s voice sounded odd to me.
“It’s Mick. Is Aaron there?” I pulled out my polite talking-to-adults voice.
“He’s still asleep,” she replied. “Do you want me to wake him up? Is it important?”
I paused. Every question was a trap. If I said it was important, then she would want to know why. That would force another lie. If I lied again, then I would need to remember it. Carrying the burden of falsehood was breaking my back. “Just have him call me, okay?”
“Well, he should probably be up by now, anyway; just a moment,” Aaron’s mom said and the line went silent. I wanted to say, Mrs. Bishop, I know all about what happened with your son and your husband. I’m really sorry. But as the words formed in my head, they were burned away by thoughts of a possible conversation between Brody and Cell Phone Girl: Hey, I’m really sorry to hear about your dad. How did I know? Umm, you see …
“Mick?” Aaron said softly.
“Hey, Brody called and said you should look at the paper,” I told him. As Aaron considered what I said, I realized Brody was right: I was both the center and the point. While I didn’t lift a finger to help or hinder, I was the one who lit the spark that started and ended it.
“Why?” Aaron said after a pause.
“Look in the obituaries,” I answered. “Look under the name Shreve.”
“Who?”
Even though I knew Mom couldn’t hear, I whispered anyway, “The Scarecrow.”
“So what?”
“So, I don’t know. It creeps me out to know he had a name, a life, a family,” I said.
“He’s still dead,” Aaron replied. “Dead is dead.”
“But, man, what we did to him,” I said as I struggled to find small words to wrap around my almost overwhelming feeling of remorse. I understood why Brody wanted to talk to the Scarecrow’s daughter. I understood Brody wanting to say “I’m sorry” to someone because if I could say “I’m sorry,” then someone could forgive me; if someone could forgive me, then I could stop feeling the guilt, the shame, the regret, and the dread that drove my days and nights.
“It’s done, spilled milk,” Aaron said flatly, but something spiked in me. The little we had talked about it, Aaron had never once expressed regret, only the fear of getting caught.
“Brody wants to get together tonight. We’ll come by, okay?” The words rushed out of me.
“Fine,” he said.
“You haven’t told anyone, have you?” I said slowly, ashamed for asking but unable to stop myself.
“Have you?” Aaron replied.
“Who am I going to tell?” I said sharply. Telling ex-Dad was out of the question. I couldn’t tell Mom either. It would crush her to know I could do something so horrible. But if I had told her, I knew she would protect me somehow. Mom’s maternal instincts, I guessed, would be stronger than any notion of law, order, or justice.
“Well, I’m not talking,” Aaron said. “What time are you coming over?”
“Six, maybe a little later.”
“See you two then,” Aaron said, then hung up the phone. In the white noise of the dial tone, I wondered why Aaron said “you two.” I felt the urge to find my geometry book from last year. I was caught in a triangle of fate. What if Aaron and Brody were talking to each other without me? What if Brody really believed it was my fault and persuaded Aaron to believe likewise? The connections between Brody and me were stronger than those between Aaron and Brody, and me and Aaron. Maybe Aaron knew that and assumed Brody and I would team up. Maybe Brody thought that Aaron and I would team up against him. I drew triangles in my head as I started toward the kitchen. I thought about the shapes, sizes, and names, but in all of them, I was the point.
Mom sat in her usual spot curled up next to the heat vent as I stumbled into the kitchen. I could tell from the way she looked at me that she wanted to talk, which was never good for me.
“Good morning, Mom,” I said, trying to break her icy stare.
“You feeling okay, Mick?” she replied lightning fast. “Is something wrong?”
I grunted, reaching for a cereal box. I avoided another lie by not answering the question.
“Mick, is there something you need to tell me? You seem distracted lately,” she said.
I didn’t answer out loud, only with the sound of the beating of my telltale heart.
“So, how was homecoming?” she asked. I wondered if she noticed me say “shit” under my breath. “Don’t you have any pictures?”
I knew I was trapped in this lie. All week, I’d played along, even letting her buy me a new suit. Then last night, I’d told her more lies about my imaginary date. I’d actually hung out with Aaron and Brody. Not drinking, certainly not talking about the Scarecrow. That truth remained buried, but Mom had me busted. It was a matter of getting out with the least damage.
“You didn’t go to homecoming, did you?” Mom said, then took a deep drag on her Kool.
I just stared at my empty bowl, not wanting to lie again, not ready to tell the truth.
Mom sighed as she expelled the smoke. “You’re turning out just like your father.” The tone in her voice slapped my face, but didn’t dislodge my tongue from the back of my throat.
“Mick, how can you lie to me like that?” Her voice sounded beyond sad, almost lost.
“Mom, I …” But I faded out, like some sound disappearing off into the distance.
She shook her head. “Mick, didn’t your father’s example teach you anything?” I filled up my bowl, then leaned against the kitchen counter. I was unable to stand up straight.
“It’s one thing to take money from me, but to lie to me, Mick, that’s worse.”
“I know, Mom,” I finally said.
“Mick, say the words.” She raised her voice but remained seated.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.
“For what?” she asked. “It’s not enough, Mick, to say you’re sorry, you have to admit responsibility. You have to say the words. Don’t be like your father, be a man. Admit it.”
I stirred the cereal in my bowl, matching the churning in my stomach.
“Mick, show me you’re becoming a man. Show me you’re a better man than your—”
“Mom, I’m sorry I lied to you about homecoming,” I confessed.
“What did you do with the money I gave you? I know your father gave you money, too.”
“Spent it on stuff,” I mumbled. I’d been wrong about my parents not talking. I’d trusted in their hatred of each other, but they’d betrayed me by speaking to each other, at least about me.
She shook her head like it weighed two thousand pounds. “Mick, this is very sad.”
“You’re not going to tell Dad that I got money from you, too, are you?”
“No, Mick, I won’t tell him, I’ll leave that to you,” she said, then actually smiled.
“What are you smiling about?” I asked.
“I amaze myself,” she said, then laughed. “When he asked me if I’d given you money for homecoming, too, I just avoided the question. I didn’t lie to him, but I didn’t tell him the truth. That’s up to you.”
“Okay,” I said, knowing that telling the truth wasn’t really going to bring any good to anyone.
“But if he pushed me, I probably would have lied to protect you, Mick. I guess my instinct is to do anything to protect you. You’ll understand when you’re a parent.”
“Anything?” I asked. She nodded, confirming both her love and her powerlessness.
“A mother would do anything to protect her child,” she said.
I wanted to ask her, How can you protect me from the things I’ve already done? I finished my cereal as she finished her smoke. Before I could respond, she’d picked up her purse and left by the back door. She never stayed to see ex-Dad when he picked me up.
I saw the Flint Journal on the kitchen counter. I walked around it like it was a dead animal. I didn’t need to read the words to make it more real than it already was, but I couldn’t resist. Sometimes when I tried so hard to be strong, it only proved how weak I was.
OBITUARIES
Edward Shreve, 39, of Swartz Creek, died Friday, November 5, in a fire at his temporary residence.
He was the son of the late Floyd and Anna Shreve and a graduate of Flint Northern High School.
Shreve was previously employed as a skilled tradesman at the General Motors parts division in Swartz Creek.
Shreve is survived by his daughter, Lauren Shreve, and ex-wife, Marybeth Shreve, of Swartz Creek. Also surviving are two sisters, Alice Westlake of Minneapolis, Minnesota, and Mary Kramer of Houston, Texas; a brother, Bradley Shreve, and his wife, Margie, of Mission, Kansas; and several nieces and nephews.
The family suggests donations to the Eastern Michigan Food Bank in lieu of flowers. There will be a memorial service for family only at Kelly Funeral Home on Calkins Road in Swartz Creek.
I put down the paper, then ran into my bedroom all the while telling myself, This isn’t happening to me. In bed, I so badly wanted to sleep, but rest had vanished with the Scarecrow’s life. To sleep was to dream, but I didn’t have room for dreams, just for nightmares.
The knock at the front door stirred my stress like witches at a boiling cauldron. I looked out the window to see if it was the police. Every knock at the door or ring of the phone caused that reaction. But it was only ex-Dad. I pulled it together and stumbled toward the door.
“Are you ready to go?” ex-Dad said as the bright winter sun almost blinded me when I opened the door. It wasn’t a gust of wind that made the next sound, but ex-Dad’s normal condition of impatience. He sighed, then added, “Mick, get dressed already.”
I looked at the clothes that were disappointing ex-Dad: my Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt and blue jeans. “Fine,” I snapped, and left him standing behind the slammed door. Per Mom’s instructions, ex-Dad wasn’t allowed in the house. I found that rule both mean and meaningful.
I went back to my room, and found tan slacks and a white shirt on the closet floor. As I rushed to get redressed, I imagined ex-Dad’s foot tapping with impatience on the front stoop. Half of me wanted to take a long time to make him wait. The other half, the stronger half, hurried in some instinctive desire not to upset my father. As I buttoned up my one dress shirt, I stared into the mirror, thinking about Mom, who worked so hard to make my life better, thinking about all the things ex-Dad had done to make my life worse. The mirror reflected a truth I could no longer avoid. The one who loved me least was the one I would probably do anything to please. “That’s better,” ex-Dad said when I returned.
I nodded, then grabbed my winter coat even though it wouldn’t warm the chill in my bones, which seemed infinite.
“Great day for football!” ex-Dad said as we walked toward his silver Tahoe parked in the dull gray, cracked driveway. I kept my head down, mouth closed, and got in.
“Help yourself,” ex-Dad said as he pointed at a box of a donuts. There were two missing from the box and powdered sugar on the steering wheel. Last time we were together, he told me he was on a diet. By the time I finished my first one—the rush of sugar making me feel momentarily groggy—we were at the entrance to the expressway.
“I think the Lions are going to win today, yes sir,” ex-Dad said.
“Maybe,” I said, killing time and filling in the space in his sports monologue.
“Here’s the problem with the Lions this year, if you ask me.” And then he began his review of the offense, defense, special teams, etc. As ex-Dad rattled on, my mind was looking for a place to land. Not even the distracting detailed anti-Lions diatribe in my ear could move my mind from the Scarecrow. It was like my head was a TV, but no matter what button I pressed on the remote, there was only one show and it was in endless reruns.
As we drove to Detroit, I saw a billboard for a Chico’s. It made me sad as I thought about the life Mom lived compared to the one she was promised by ex-Dad. Exhausted from lack of sleep, and desperate to talk about something that would distract me from my own mistakes, I interrupted ex-Dad’s commentary on the Lion’s running game, to ask him about something I had needed to know for a long time. “Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Cheat on Mom,” I said. My words set off a huge sigh, followed by a wall of silence. I wanted to understand ex-Dad so I could understand myself. After watching Brody self-destruct like his father and after seeing the violence bottled up in Aaron, I wondered if, like them, my future was determined for me by my father’s actions.
“Mick, that’s complicated,” he finally said, though that was not even close to an answer.
“Explain it to me; we have time.” I knew the drive to Detroit was over an hour.
Ex-Dad drove a little faster, cutting in and out of lanes, but the thing chasing him was in the car and in the past, not in the rearview mirror.
“When you get married, you’ll understand,” ex-Dad said in that “we’re done” tone.
“How?”
“How what?” The words were followed with a loud sigh set at volume ten.
“How will I understand then? I need to understand it now,” I said, careful in my words; this wasn’t about wanting, for I knew I no longer wanted anything. Anything in the past I had said I wanted—Nicole or Whitney—seemed trivial and childish. This was about need. “Just tell me.”
Ex-Dad took a deep breath, no doubt wishing Ford Field was closer to Swartz Creek.
“I’m waiting,” I said. My heart was almost exploding with the honesty of the statement.
“Listen, Mick, I don’t want to say anything bad about your mother to you,” ex-Dad said and I tried not to laugh. I wished I could turn the rearview mirror into a time machine, taking us back into the past so ex-Dad could recall all the bad things he had said to me over the years. To recall all the tears Mom had cried, all the words ex-Dad had yelled, and all the lies he was trying so hard to forget.
“It’s not about her,” I said, speaking deep from within.
“Marriage is difficult. It’s just not for everyone.” Ex-Dad’s voice lacked the confidence of moments earlier. Obviously examining and accepting responsibility for the mistakes in your life was harder than dissecting special teams.
“For better or worse,” I mumbled. I’d seen enough TV to know the words.
“I know the damn wedding vows, Mick.”
“You promised.”
“Like I said, when you’re older, then you’ll understand,” his voice was slowing down even as the speed of the car increased. We were going about eighty miles an hour yet were still being passed by other cars. I had to wonder what conversations or memories those drivers were running from.
“But why did you cheat?” I asked. I sounded both wise and innocent at the same time. “I mean, how could you do that to Mom? How could you lie to her like that? How could—”
“That’s enough, mister!” ex-Dad shouted. He called me “mister” when he was most angry, when he treated me most like a child. It was his human way of lifting his leg.
“No, that’s not enough!” I shouted back even if I knew I’d never crack his wall of denial. All I wanted and needed was for him to say, Mick, what I did was wrong. I’m sorry, forgive me.
“Can’t a guy spend time with his son without this bullshit?” Another shout, another sigh.
“It’s not bullshit,” I said.
“Watch your mouth, mister,” he snapped back.
“But you said it.”
“I’m an adult, different rules,” ex-Dad proclaimed.
“But why can’t I talk like—”
“That’s your trouble, you talk too much.” Seething had replaced his sighing.
I wanted to ask what he meant, but we both knew. It was something we didn’t speak about, but it was always hovering over us like the darkest cloud in a stormy sky. There was never a time I was with him that I didn’t remember our conversation after I saw him with that other woman.
The rest of the drive was swallowed in silence. At the game, there were thousands of people in the stands and I wished I could have exchanged seats with any of them. Ex-Dad tried talking to me about the game, but I mostly grunted, shrugged, and gave him nothing in return. Instead, I drifted into dreams. Dreams of running out onto the field and saying, My name is Mick Salisbury. I’m fifteen years old, and I’ve helped kill a man. But it’s not my fault. Nothing is my fault or responsibility. I learned that lesson from my dad. But I also dreamed of saying, Dad, I’m in big trouble. I need your help. But deep down, unlike Mom who would risk anything to protect me, I knew ex-Dad would sacrifice nothing. Three hours later, the gun sounded and the Lions ran off the field. A cheer emerged from the stands, but I was quiet.
On the trip home, we talked more about nothing that mattered because for me nothing really did. I wondered if Brody and Aaron felt this way, like having an itch you can’t scratch or can’t even locate. My heart under my shirt thumped like a rap bass line.
As we pulled off the interstate, ex-Dad didn’t drive home but parked us outside of the abandoned GM factory that sat mostly deserted. Ex-Dad shifted in his seat to face me, but I turned away. My eyes were focused on the floor.
“Your mother tells me your grades are starting to slip. Is that true?” ex-Dad asked.
“I guess,” I mumbled as I awaited another sigh-filled lecture without him listening to me.
“You have to get your grades up.”
“Why?” Out the window, I noticed the darkness of the ghost factory looming larger.
“That’s why,” ex-Dad said, his voice hoarse from cheering. I looked over to see him pointing out the window. “GM is dying. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have a job.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wonder how things would have been for you if I would have lost my job, like Brody’s dad did all those years ago,” ex-Dad continued. “I had a little more seniority, so when they drew the line, I stayed on, and Brody’s dad fell off. Once he lost his job, I knew that was the beginning of the end for him. It was only a matter of time. That accident was a blessing.”
I answered in silence. I thought about saying, Dad, don’t you know that it wasn’t an accident? Brody’s dad killed himself. I wondered if I should say, Dad, do you want to know a secret? I could tell him something so he would have to reply in return, and answer my question he’d avoided earlier. I was torn between wanting to bond with my father and the bond of my word to Brody. The rubber band I had become was being pulled by both sides. Sooner rather than later, that rubber band would snap, crackle, and then pop.
“I wonder sometimes what would have happened if I’d lost my job then,” he said. “In some ways, Brody’s dad was the lucky one.”
“Lucky?” Was death better than a terrible life? If it was, then didn’t we do a good thing putting the Scarecrow out of his misery? Maybe it wasn’t murder; it was a mercy killing.
“He had a chance to get out while he was younger,” ex-Dad said, then sighed. “He could have started over, but I stayed. I stayed and now I’m the one who’s trapped.”
I stared at the broken parking lot of the phantom factory. “Trapped?”
“I don’t want that for you, Mick, so you’ve got to work harder. You’ve got to learn. You’ve got to think about your future,” my father said. “Trouble is, my generation used up most of it.”
“I’ll try to do better at school.” It was the closest I’d felt to my father in some time. It was the most he’d ever revealed to me about himself. I wondered if I would ever experience that again. We drove the rest of the way in silence, neither of us wanting to ruin the moment. At the top of my street, I said, “Dad, I’m sorry about this morning.”
Ex-Dad looked at me, puzzled. I wanted to go on and say, Dad, are you sorry? Not just for this morning, but for everything. Or, If you can’t say you’re sorry, then at least admit the sin. Are you ready? He didn’t apologize or confess, just made more empty promises: “I’ll make everything up to you.”
“Sure thing,” I said as I studied the floor of the car. I didn’t believe his words, or mine.
“What the hell!” ex-Dad said out of nowhere. I felt the car speed up as my head jerked up to stare out the windshield at the police car sitting in my driveway.
As we drove toward the house, my mind raced through my choices. The Tahoe was going slow enough, I could jump out and take off running down the street, which would connect to another street, then another, and one of the roads might allow me to escape. Maybe I could turn toward my father and admit it all. Dad, something happened nine days ago. We’d been drinking, and things got out of hand. It was my fault. You see, I spilled the bottle, and I was the one who mentioned the Scarecrow. Aaron started it, or maybe it was Brody, but it all connects back to me. Or I could turn toward him and admit nothing, saying instead, Look, Aaron and Brody, they went crazy and killed this guy. I didn’t do anything, I tried to stop them. I wanted to tell. But I have to stand by my friends. That’s what you want, right, Dad? Or I could turn toward him but not turn on my friends: Dad, I did it. I’m willing to take the consequences. No, nobody else was involved. I’ll take the punishment. I’m not afraid of anything anymore. But I didn’t say or do anything; it was like I was paralyzed. When Dad pulled the SUV into the driveway, Mom came to the car with the police at her side.
“Mick, get out of the car please,” a black cop said, pointing his finger at me.
As I got out of the SUV, I thought how this must be what a car accident is like: everything happening so fast, and yet you can see everything, take in every detail. I noticed a mole on the white cop’s neck and a small scar on the forehead of the black cop. I smelled the Kool smoke surrounding my mother, tasted the donuts from that morning on the back of my teeth, and felt the moisture of the sweat coming from my father’s forehead. And I heard every vowel sound of every syllable of every word the white cop spoke when he said, “Michael Salisbury, you’re under arrest for the murder of Edward Shreve.”
· · ·
All the way to the police station, I didn’t speak a word. I just sat in the back of the car. I kept my head down and tried not to look into the rearview mirror at ex-Dad’s SUV trailing behind us. Mom had stayed behind with cops who were searching the house. My eyes searched the car’s floor for a sharp object, not to cut my handcuffed wrists, but to sever my vocal cords.
From the police car, everything happened just like I’d seen on TV: photos, fingerprinting, body searches. From the booking office, I went not to jail but to a holding cell in the courthouse. The room was purgatory: not heaven, not hell, just a place to await my fate. Finally, the door opened and I was taken to another room. There my parents were standing with a guy in a suit whom I didn’t know. My parents played their roles perfectly: Mom was worried; ex-Dad was angry.
“Michael, my name is David Richards. The court’s appointed me to represent you in this matter.” The guy stuck out his hand, but I couldn’t move a muscle for fear that one muscle could move another and then another, and then my mouth would move. I did not speak or shake.
“In a little while, you’re going to go before a judge,” Richards said. “You’re going to be charged with the murder of Mr. Shreve. This is a serious offense. Mick, do you understand that? They have just enough evidence to arrest you, maybe even to hold you, but not to convict.”
I didn’t even blink until Richards looked away and asked my parents to leave us alone.
“You’ve got to tell me what happened,” Richards said, gesturing for me to sit at the table as he sat down next to me. “I can’t defend you unless I know what happened. Tell me who this man is, what your connection to him is, and what you did. I need to know the whole story.”
I nodded, then cracked my knuckles, but said nothing.
“Mick, this isn’t the trial. It’s only an arraignment, but it’s important. It will determine if you go free today, or if you’ll be detained until the next hearing. So, you’ve got to talk to me.”
Nothing.
“I’m going to plead you not guilty,” he said. “I’ve briefly talked to the DA and with what they have, I don’t know how they got this far even to arrest you, but the system doesn’t work in your favor. I’m going to try to get the charges dropped at this hearing. If not, they can hold you for a few days while we argue that if the case goes on, it should be tried in juvenile court.”
My eyes must have given away that I felt like he was speaking some other language.
“All they can do right now is place you with the victim. They arrested you on that, but mainly to get your fingerprints and match them with some evidence at the scene,” Richards said.
“What evidence?” I finally broke my silence.
“A lighter. Do you own a lighter, Mick? Bone colored?” he asked.
I could lie, but I knew from watching TV shows that once you got caught in lies, you were toast. The lawyer said he was on my side, but the only thing on my side was my silence.
“I had a lighter. I lost it.”
“Okay, how did it get next to the dead man?” Richards asked.
I shrugged.
“Mick, if I’m going to defend you, you need to be honest with me.”
“I don’t know, okay?” I said, then crossed my arms.
“They also think they have a murder weapon, a brick found near the body,” Richards said. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t give away anything. Maybe an eyelash flutter, but nothing else.
“Will they find your fingerprints there?” Richards asked me, to no response. “You need to tell me right now about what happened on that night. I’m not saying you have to talk to the cops, not yet, anyway, but I’m going to tell your parents they need to get a new lawyer if I can’t get some cooperation from you. Mick, this is your last chance to let me help you save yourself.”
“Go ahead.” I could barely talk: all my energy was focused on not speaking.
“Don’t do this to yourself or your family,” Richards said as he rose from the table. He adjusted his dark blue tie, ran his fingers through his black, gelled hair, and then leaned into me.
I stared at the floor, looking for cracks in the concrete.
“Last chance. You tell me the truth, then I can defend you,” Richards said, then bounced his hands off the table. I wanted to tell Richards, but if I told one person, he might tell another. I couldn’t afford one crack in the pavement of silence: one crack leads to another, then another.
“I didn’t do anything,” I said.
“Listen, Mick, this is the most important thing for you to know,” Richards said, then sat back down. He grabbed me by the shoulders, then forced my chin up to look at him. “There’s guilt, there’s innocence, and there’s what they can prove. That’s all I care about: what they can prove. They have their version of the truth. I need your version of it so I can defend you.”
My head was spinning in fifty directions by Richards’s words smashing against my promise to Aaron, to Brody, but mostly to myself. “I’ve got nothing to say,” I mumbled.
“Fine, I’ll tell your father. He won’t be happy,” he said as he left the room.
I wanted to say, Like I care, but I let it go. I sat alone in the room for a few moments, cracking my knuckles, looking at the ugly gray walls that seemed to be inching closer.
“Mister, you knock this off right now!” ex-Dad shouted. The door was not shut behind him by the time the sentence was finished. “You’d better start talking, right now, or else.”
“Or else what?” I looked down at the table, but felt like I was standing on it. I wanted to say, How does it feel to want something and not be able to get it? I’ve wanted you to be there for me, to be a father, but you wouldn’t do it, you selfish bastard. Now, you want something from me. All my life you’ve had it over me, now I’ve finally got something over you. I’ve got my secret.
“What did you say to me?” He was right in my face. The bulging veins of his neck seemed to be touching the tiny, weak yet growing, hairs on my chin.
“Or else what?” I repeated. “There’s nothing you can do to me.”
“This is serious, Mick, very serious.”
“You can’t hit me, you can’t ground me, and you can’t leave me,” I proclaimed.
“I should let you rot in here,” he shot back. “I’m trying to help you, son.”
Try harder, I wanted to reply, maybe shout, but instead, he pulled out the chair across from me. The scraping of the chair legs on the floor sounded like paper being torn.
“Mick, how did this happen?” His voice was softer now.
“I don’t want to—”
“No, not that, this, between us.” Ex-Dad sounded lost. “Why are you so angry at me?”
I wanted to shout, The fact that you have to ask me is all the answer you should need!
“I’ll make you a deal, Mick.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you what you want to hear—what we talked about this afternoon—if you tell me what happened. You don’t have to tell the lawyer, the cops, or even your mother. It will be a secret just between us,” he said.
“Between us?”
“I’m sorry, Mick.” Ex-Dad spoke like a first-grader stumbling over a new vocabulary word. “I’m sorry I haven’t been a better father. But most of all …”
My father let it dangle in the airless room for just a moment.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner,” he continued, as his words bounced off each other but failed to hit the target of responsibility. “It’s hard for me to admit it, to face it.”
“Why did you do it?” I asked, knowing I didn’t need to explain the pronoun.
“Because, because, Mick, I was selfish. There, I said it, are you happy?”
“Why?”
“Why was I selfish?” Ex-Dad seemed confused. “I don’t know, I can’t explain.”
“I know,” I mumbled through the smile I was trying to cover up.
“How do you know?” ex-Dad said.
I was thinking about Brody’s and Aaron’s dads as well. “Because you were weak,” I said, sighed, then put my head facedown on the table. I pretended to hear the molecules of the wood bouncing against each other rather than ex-Dad’s grinding teeth and choked-back sighs. I didn’t have a watch and there was no clock in the room, but I guessed it was ten minutes before he spoke again.
“Okay, son, now it’s your turn,” ex-Dad said, each word measured like a precious metal.
I chewed my tongue as the different versions of events flashed like lightning behind my eyes.
“Mick, be a man, keep your promise,” Ex-Dad said, but I wanted him to add, Mick, be a better man than me and keep your promise.
“Okay, but, Dad, this is between us, right?” Ex-Dad extended his hand and I shook it. “We decided not to go to the football game. We were hanging around the Big K. This homeless guy was bothering us. He asked me for a light, and I handed him my lighter. He ran off with it.”
“So you had nothing to do with this?” Ex-Dad spoke the question as a statement of fact.
I nodded with closed and hidden eyes, then asked, “Do you have to tell the lawyer?”
“I’m going to tell him only that you told me you’re innocent and that should be enough for him.” Ex-Dad had a proud sound in his voice that I’d never really heard before.
“Okay, just tell him I’m innocent. This is just a mistake,” I said, still without making eye contact.
“A mistake.” Ex-Dad repeated the magic words and then opened the door to leave.
After a few minutes, the lawyer came back into the room and spoke. “It’s time.”
A cop entered the room. Like kids in costumes marching down the street on Halloween, my lawyer, my parents, the cop, and I walked down a beige hall toward the courtroom. When the courtroom door opened, my senses slowed down again to take it all in. I stared at Aaron and Brody, who were already seated, along with men I guessed were their lawyers, before the white-haired judge. I wasn’t given a chance to say anything to Brody and Aaron, but as our lawyers entered our not-guilty pleas, we looked at each other, then nodded. As we were led out, I stared at Brody and at Aaron; I knew no matter what—come hell or high water—none of us would be the first to talk.