Shadow of the Past Page 8

  You feel like if you actually saw the person get killed you shouldn’t go to the funeral.

  “Mark, she was one of your closest friends. Not going is something that you’d regret for the rest of your life.”

  “I know, I know,” Mark said, turning away from the mirror. “I’m just really nervous.”

  “What do you have to be nervous about?” Steve said, still looking in the mirror and fixing his hair.

  “I just feel like everyone will be watching me. That I won’t . . . I dunno. I just don’t want people to freak out because I’m there.”

  “Mark,” Steve said, turning to glare at him out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not trying to be a dick here, but I think people are going to have other things on their mind than you.”

  Mark sighed. “You’re right. Let’s just get this over with, okay?”

  Steve had gotten his parents’ permission to miss school for the funeral and to borrow his mother’s car for the day so they wouldn’t have to drive around in formal clothes on the back of a scooter. Joe had just shrugged his shoulders and told Mark that if he needed to go he could go. Clara’s daughter, Persephone, who had flown in over the weekend, arranged the funeral. Mark had never met her and Clara had told him that the two hadn’t been in touch much since Clara’s husband passed away.

  The funeral home was irritatingly cheerful and in the same middle-class DMZ that Steve lived in and helped Cedar Ridge put a happy face on class warfare. They walked in and headed towards the archway marked “Washington Funeral,” and were handed tiny prayer cards by the funeral directors.

  There were at least forty people milling about the room, standing together in small groups. There were a couple of glances towards them when they entered, and that was enough to make Mark stop in his tracks and take a seat at the closest chair.

  “Yeah, here is good,” Steve said, taking the chair next to him. “Why walk around when there’s a chair right here?”

  “Knock it off,” Mark said with his mouth clenched, looking around the room.

  “Do you see anyone you recognize?”

  “There’s the guy that has the Chinese food place next to hers. A couple of the regular customers, but that’s it. I never really met her family.”

  “Do you want to go say Hi or something?”

  “I’m fine right here.”

  Steve sighed. “Okay, fair enough.”

  There was a large photo of Clara on a stand next to a podium at the front of the room. The photo had been taken outdoors and she looked years younger. She was looking over her shoulder and smiling, the sunlight behind her giving her a divine luminescence. Next to the photo was a small pedestal with an urn on top.

  He didn’t want her burned, so they did it anyway. Way to have the last word, family members.

  After several minutes, a woman in her early thirties came to the podium, and everyone in the room who was still milling around found a seat. Next to her mother’s picture, the resemblance between the two was striking.

  Persephone began talking but Mark tuned her out, staring only at Clara’s picture. When Aunt Martha died, Clara had told him that she never believed death was an ending, just another step in a never-ending journey. Whenever Clara talked like that he’d just roll his eyes behind her back and nod and smile. She’d also told him that everything “worked out for the best,” but Mark knew that was crap too.

  There wasn’t anything about this that worked out for the best.

  Persephone stopped talking and there was a smattering of applause and “Amen’s.”

  Only a few more people spoke, and then the service began to disperse. Mark and Steve got up, and as Mark turned to leave the room, he found himself face to face with Detective Prescott.

  “Mark. Steve. How’s it going?” he said.

  “Good. Y’know, all things considered,” Steve said. The detective turned to look at Mark, who just nodded his head in agreement.

  Hey, maybe he wants more lame, half-assed answers for your erratic and sketchy behavior. Or maybe he’s a crying enthusiast like you.

  “Well, if you guys will excuse me, I’m going to go pay my respects,” Detective Prescott said.

  Steve continued towards the door, but Mark stayed where he was. Once Steve realized Mark wasn’t with him, he turned back to him. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “I . . .” Mark started, but trailed off as he watched the detective go over to Persephone, who was standing next to a wide, stocky Asian man with a crew cut. The detective held out his hand, and after a moment, Persephone and her companion took a turn shaking it.

  “Mark?” Steve repeated, coming back up along side of him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Mark said, still not looking at him. The detective and Persephone were talking, and he could tell that whatever he was saying wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Her voice was rising but not loud enough for Mark to hear from across the room. The Asian man put his arm around Persephone and she leaned into him.

  Then she turned and meet Mark’s gaze.

  Everything froze as she squinted at him, trying to place where they may have met before. Mark’s first instinct was to turn and look away, but he realized that if he did it too quickly he’d look strange. Stranger than staring someone down at their mother’s funeral at least.

  Detective Prescott looked over as well and Mark suddenly felt the weight of his lie pressing down on him like a giant, bloody stamp saying “GUILTY!”

  “C’mon, let’s go,” Mark said. Breaking the stare took every ounce of willpower he had.

  “Mark do you want to go over there, pay your respects?” Steve said, trailing after Mark as he headed for the door.

  “No,” Mark said, pushing open the door and taking a deep lungful of air. “Clara knew she had my respects.”

  “I think you’re being paranoid,” Christine said the next day after school as they headed for the bike rack where the V was parked.

  “Why?” Mark said, trying to keep his voice down to an inconspicuous level. “Why else do you think he was there? Why do you think she was looking at me like that? They think that I’m involved! They--” he lowered his voice as someone passed by. “They probably have me as a suspect.”

  “Mark, c’mon,” she said. “There’s no way he thinks any of us are involved. He was probably just there to be nice.”

  “No,” Mark said. “When I went to see him last week he asked me why I didn’t say anything to him about the whole falling down the stairs thing.”

  “You didn’t? Why not?”

  “I don’t know,” Mark said, fumbling with his keys. “I just didn’t think it was important. I mean, I thought it was just me falling down the steps, not some huge deal.”

  “It wasn’t,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It just came out when he asked if anything unusual happened. I wasn’t trying to say anything about you or--”

  “I know, I know. I just hate how it makes me look. Like I was trying to hide something.”

  She reached out and placed her hand on his cheek. “You don’t have anything to hide, do you?”

  Yes.

  “No.”

  “Then relax. There’s nothing you can do about what they think.”

  He knelt down, placing his helmet on the ground as he unlocked the chain around the bike. He just had the chain unlocked when he heard Christine say “Mark,” in a warning tone. He glanced up and the keys slipped through his fingers.

  Jack was strolling towards them with three of his friends in tow: Victor and Kyle from gym class and Eric Simmons, Jack’s co-captain on the lacrosse team. There was nothing like a quartet of assholes to really drive home a bad day.

  “Hey Mark,” Jack said. “How’s it going, buddy?” As they got closer Vic, Kyle and Eric spread out in a semi-circle around Mark, trapping him with his back to the bike rack.

  “What do you want, Jack?” Mark said, picking up his helmet and getting to his feet, straightening up as tall as his limited self-confidence wo
uld allow. Christine drifted behind him, apparently laboring under the delusion that he’d be able to protect her.

  Fuck that. You better do something about this you coward, before she sees you for what you really are.

  “Nothing, man. This has got to be a tough time for you,” Jack said with a lazy grin. “I mean, I know blacks liked barbecue, but damn!”

  Everything slowed down. He could hear Christine gasp as Jack and his friends snickered in satisfaction. His hand was damp and sweaty from clutching his helmet in a death-grip.

  “That’s fucking sick,” Christine said, moving out from behind him.

  Oh look. *She’s* going to protect *you!*

  “Oh, don’t get your cunt in a twist, sweetie, I’m just having fun with him.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” she said, taking another step towards Jack.

  Jack rolled his head around from right to left, letting out a deep, sorrowful sigh. “Mark, control your bitch before I put her in her place.”

  “Like you could, asshole,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Jack turned and glared at her. “Mark, I’m going to seriously hurt this bitch if you don’t tell her to keep her fucking mouth shut. Now, why don’t we--”

  “Leave her alone,” Mark growled.

  “Well,” Jack said, turning his head to look at Mark. “Look who grew a pai--”

  And then the helmet smashed into Jack’s mouth.

  He stumbled backwards, blood spilling from his already swelling lips. Jack raised a hand to his mouth, wiped it, and looked at the red in his hand. Mark looked down at his own hand, still rattling slightly from the impact, and the bike helmet he hadn’t even realized he’d swung. The shiver in his arm was replaced by his heart pounding in his chest. It felt good.

  Really, really good.

  The good feeling lasted only until he looked back at Jack. Jack’s surprise had been converted to anger, his cheeks blooming with red that nearly matched the blood dripping from his mouth. Jack spat a bloody wad of it on the ground and raised his fists, shuffling to one side and then springing forward.

  Jack swung wildly, and Mark barely stepped out of the way. His dodge carried him inside the swing and he brought the helmet up, catching Jack on the point of his chin. His head snapped back, and Mark kicked him in the stomach, pushing him down on his back.

  “Motherfucker,” Eric said, stepping in from Mark’s right. Mark turned and snarled. That flash of anger was enough to make Eric’s drawn back fist waver, and Mark rewarded his indecision by clasping the helmet in both hands and driving it forward with all of his strength, smashing the top into Eric’s nose. He toppled backwards, hands going to stem the sudden eruption of blood. Eric’s foot caught on the edge of the bike rack and he lost his balance, falling ass over elbow to the ground.

  There was a high-pitched yell that gave Mark just enough time to dodge out of the way of Jack’s berserk charge. He crashed into the bike rack and whirled around. His blood smeared mouth twisted in rage, eyes bulging and face purple. He pushed off from the rack and sprung forward. Mark retreated, backing towards the crowd of kids that had begun to form.

  Mark planted his feet, cocked back his helmet-hand and held his other hand palm-out, fingers spread. Jack stopped short and raised his fists again. Around them, Mark could see more kids running to join the expanding crowd.

  There had been times where Mark had fantasized of this moment. He was usually wielding a sword or flame thrower or a high powered rifle, but revenge was revenge.

  Destroy him. Put him down now, once and for all.

  Jack lunged forward with a jab, and Mark stepped to the side, swatting the fist away with his free hand. Jack swung again, and Mark ducked under it and swung the helmet up, hitting him across the jaw. Jack staggered, and Mark swung again, smashing him on one cheek, and then swinging backhanded and hitting the other. Jack wobbled on his feet, hands dropping down to his waist. With a triumphant scream, Mark swung again, hitting Jack in the temple and driving him down on one knee.

  Mark tossed aside the helmet with another yell and moved in for the kill.

  Fist-fights and male teenage bullshit were nothing new to Christine. The boys she knew in Boston were practically choking themselves on it to prove whose balls were bigger. Even “messing with the nerds” was standard fare, and although she’d never admit it she’d done her share of laughing at boys like Mark when they got put on the spot and started tripping over their own social inadequacies.

  She’d never seen anything like the gleeful venom that spewed forth from Jack or the rage on his face when Mark hit him. What erupted before her was wholly new, and as Mark screamed in triumph after battering Jack with his helmet she wasn’t sure which if the two was more dangerous.

  Mark tossed the helmet aside (“I had to save up for months to get it,” he’d said with earnest pride just a couple days earlier) and it skidded to stop at her feet. Along the top there was a jagged crack forming, dotted with blood.

  Mark had crawled atop Jack, grabbing a handful of t-shirt with his left hand and slamming his right down into Jack’s face.

  “Leave . . . me . . . alone!” Mark snarled, accentuating each word with a punch. Jack flailed his arms, desperately and pitifully slapping at the punches as they rained down on him.

  “Mark!” she shouted, stepping forward, but one of the boys that had surrounded them grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.

  “I don’t think so, bitch,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and pulling her out of the way as he walked past her. Jack’s other friend, who’d watched the whole thing in gape-mouthed silence was shaken to action by his friend’s sudden movement. Mark didn’t notice either of them, concentrating instead on Jack’s bloody face.

  Christine grabbed the boys hand before he pulled away, and when he turned to look she swung her knee up into his balls. His surprise turned into gasping pain and the shocked look that boys got when every urban legend and health film about exploded testicles flashed before their eyes.

  She ran forward and got to the other boy just before he grabbed Mark, slamming into him with all her weight, and sending him skidding on his face across the gravel of the parking lot.

  “Mark!” Christine screamed, grabbing the back of his jacket and trying to pull him to his feet.

  Mark turned and his eyes were blurry with tears and squinted with concentrated hatred. For a second it didn’t seem like he recognized her, but she grabbed his clenched fist (it was sticky and hard to get a hold of) and pulled Mark away from Jack’s stunned and moaning figure.

  “We have to go!”

  The fist in her hand began to tremble, and she realized Mark was coming back from whatever ugly sinkhole he’d lost himself in.

  The kid Christine pushed had rolled over and was glaring at them. Mark took a couple of steps back, and then grinned, letting out a coughing, tear-choked laugh. He stumbled towards the scooter, reaching down and scooping up his helmet.

  After a couple of false starts the scooter lunged forward. Mark held the bloody helmet in his lap and once she knew her grip on him was solid, she looked back to make sure they weren’t being chased. Jack was sitting up and watching them drive off, face spattered with blood and eyes burning with impotent rage.

  “Mark! Mark, slow down! Please!”

  A blurry car-esque shape sped in front of him with a horn blaring and Mark realized he couldn’t see clearly. He swerved out of the way, the V listing perilously. Christine’s hold on him tightened and he could feel her face press into his back.

  For a way to go this wouldn’t be half bad. Go out on a high note, right?

  Once the scooter had righted itself he slowed down and risked using a hand to wipe at his eyes. Once he could see clearly he rounded a corner to a quiet side street, pulled over to the curb and shut the engine off. He was panting, wheezing in and out through a phlegm-packed nose, and his entire body was shaking.

  Well, it’s what you get for acting like a rabid animal. Was it everyth
ing you hoped for, killer? Better than the fantasy with the axe, or the one where you’re strangling him in front of all of his smug fucking friends?

  She was tugging at him, trying to get him to turn around and look at her. Whatever sudden adrenaline-fueled strength he had was now gone, leaving only a panic stricken mess. It was the last thing he wanted her to see.

  “Oh god, oh god,” he sobbed, pulling away and putting his head on the handlebars.

  “It’s okay,” she said, getting off the V and kneeling in the street next to him. She pulled him to her again and he didn’t have the strength to resist this time, letting the sobs come in full force as he leaned into her shoulder.

  Again with the crying? Jesus, it’s a wonder you’re not dehydrated all the time. Pick one: crybaby or lunatic. We can’t do both, you don’t have that much depth.

  He thought he could smell blood on her but he realized it was him, on his hands and probably on his face from when he wiped his eyes. He tried to pull away but she held him in place. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s all over now.”

  He rested his head on her shoulder looking down at his stinging, wet hands in his lap.

  No it’s not, tough guy. Now it’ll never be over. You know that, right? Jack will never let this go and he’s going to turn your temporary victory into the first shot in an all-out war.

  Chapter Twelve

  What Mark hated the most after subjecting someone to one of his hysterical crying breakdowns was how they looked at him afterward. First it’s with sincere looks of concern, as if he’d break down again at any moment over something ridiculous, like “I asked for Coke not Pepsi! Bawwww!” Over time, when it became obvious that pathetic weeping wasn’t going to be an all the time thing, the reaction became a kind of offhand teasing as if the whole thing was a joke or magic trick that he’d maybe whip out if given enough encouragement. “Hey, I made sure I brought you a Coke so you wouldn’t freak out like you did last time.”