Calling Home (15 page)

I was back from wherever I had gone. I was not lost anymore.

I panted, and retched.

Lani was speaking, but I could not hear her.

“Lani,” I said in my own voice. But it wasn't my voice at all. It was a rough, animal voice that tore my throat. “Lani, I killed him. I killed Mead with my own hands, and I know where his body is.”

“What are you saying?” she asked, hushed, and yet knowing exactly what I had said.

I turned, and looked up at Lani. “I killed him,” I whispered. “He's been dead all this time.”

26

Mr. Mcknight led me into his study. “What happened?”

I panted, sweating, leaning on a desk.

He turned to his daughter. “What's wrong with Peter?”

Lani herself was tearstained, and could not speak at once. “Something terrible.”

“Here,” he said, taking me by the arm. “Sit down.”

I found myself in a leather chair.

“Tell him,” said Lani. “Tell him everything.”

I nodded, but I couldn't talk. Civilization itself, in the person of a tall black man in a sweater, took its seat across from me and leaned forward.

“It's probably best,” he suggested gently, “to begin at the beginning.”

“It's very difficult for Peter to talk about this,” said Lani. “It's a very terrible thing.”

I gripped the arms of the chair. I forced myself to speak. “I killed Mead.”

“How do you mean—you killed him?”

“With my fist.”

“You killed Mead,” he repeated, as though he had to say the words himself to understand them. “With your fist,” he breathed. He stood and walked to a bookshelf and leaned against it for a moment. Then he turned, and I could sense him working to keep his voice steady. “Tell me what happened.”

“I killed him. I punched him, and he died.”

“Were you fighting?”

To put it into words was impossible. “He dropped the cognac. I hit him.”

“When did this happen?”

“Eight weeks ago.”

“He's been dead for eight weeks?”

“I know where the body is.”

“Holy Christ,” he said, not like someone swearing at all, but like someone praying, or at least wanting to pray. He paced slowly, shaking his head. “You know where the body is. You've been going to school, and coming over here, and all the while you knew where Mead's body was.”

I had known how disgusted he would be. And he was right to be disgusted.

“He called on the telephone, imitating Mead so Mead's parents wouldn't worry,” said Lani.

“So his parents wouldn't worry,” he said, in disbelief.

“Mr. Litton is sick from his injury,” said Lani. “And from his heart. Peter was trying to do the right thing.”

Mr. McKnight fell into his chair. “The right thing,” he said, “would not have been so difficult.”

I said nothing, but sat like someone listening to a television in the next room.

“Talk to me, Peter,” he said.

I said nothing. I did not merely keep silent. Nothingness radiated from me. I did not feel like a human being, but like a mineral, a spill of quartz, a splinter of granite. But not entirely stone. Inside was a flame, and it seared me.

“You have a lot of talking to do, Peter,” said Mr. McKnight. “A lot of communicating. I know it'll be hard. I see how knotted up you are. You must think the world is a very strange and terrible place to keep silent all this time. But unless you talk, there is no hope for you.”

It was absurd to speak of hope.

And as I sat there, I was Mead again, for a heartbeat. I felt my face take on Mead's expression. My muscles quickened, and I was back again from the cold cellar.

I was alive.

“Please, Mead,” I whispered.

Mr. McKnight dragged his chair before mine. “Listen to me. I'm your friend, Peter. I want to listen to you, and I want to help you. Tell me what happened.”

I opened my mouth, but I could make no sound.

“It's time,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Tell me.”

I told him what had happened. I talked about things I had never imagined I could discuss. I described Mead on the last evening, the broken bottle, the candlelight. Somehow the candlelight seemed important, the sight of Mead looking golden when he was last alive. I described the single punch. The sole, perfect, lethal blow that now made me wish I had been born with no arms.

“I had to keep it secret. I didn't want Mead's dad to die,” I said, weeping. “I didn't want any more people to die. And I was afraid. I was afraid of what would happen to me. I tried to keep Mead alive by pretending to be him. But today I thought I was turning into Mead—like Mead's spirit was coming back, and that scared me even more.”

I turned to Lani. “I'm sorry,” I said, unable to look at her. “I destroyed everybody's best friend.”

“It was an accident,” she said. “You'd been drinking,”

“I meant to hit him.”

“But you didn't mean to kill him,” said Lani. “It was an accident.”

“No, I didn't mean to kill him. But I did. Now, all I want to do is die. Mead's parents will both die because of this.”

“Peter, try to be calm,” said Mr. McKnight. He looked into my eyes as he spoke. “Listen to me—don't look away. I understand that you would like to punish yourself for what has happened. But that would be a terrible thing to do, and I don't want you to do that. I care about you, Peter. I've always thought you were a serious, intelligent young man. I want to help you.”

“There's nothing to do.”

“There are many things to do. Many things that will not bring Mead back to life, but which will help Mead's parents realize the truth. Don't you think it's wrong to go on lying to them? Lying about something like this is a very bad thing. Let's not lie to them anymore. And let's tell the police that they can stop searching for Mead. Let's tell everybody everything. It'll take courage, Peter. I believe in you—you can do it.”

He believed in me. I didn't know if he was a fool, but I had to trust him. I needed his faith in me, and Lani's faith in me.

“You will need an attorney,” he said. “Legal help. Do you want me to represent you?”

I looked away.

“You can't turn away. You can't not decide. The time for that is over. You have to take a deep breath, and claim your life. Right now, Peter. Decide.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“I want you to be my lawyer.”

“I have to tell your mother.”

I shook my head, shuddering. “It'll be horrible for her. And for my dad, too. It'll be horrible for everyone.”

He put his hand on my shoulder again. His grip was hard, and it hurt. “It will be hard on everyone, including you. Trust them to be able to endure it. And trust Mead's parents, too. People are sometimes stronger than you think.”

“I want it all to be over with.”

“I'll help you.”

I experienced a strange feeling—a feeling of gratitude. It was a strong feeling, a sense of thankfulness that I had fallen into the hands of a wise man.

I also felt that I did not deserve this understanding.

“I'll call your mother, with your permission, and then, with her permission, I'll take you down to see one of the district attorneys. And I want you to see a doctor.”

“I'm not sick.”

“I want to be sure of that.”

“I want to do everything I have to. They can put me in jail forever.”

“Forever,” said Mr. McKnight, “is a long time.”

“It'll be all right, Peter,” said Lani. “Just have a little faith.”

“Right,” said Mr. McKnight. “A little faith. Lani, get Peter a glass of water.”

I drank the water, and I sat there trembling like a very old, or very sick, person while there were phone calls, and while Mr. McKnight's voice spoke in the next room, the sound of intelligence and kindness I knew I did not deserve.

And then my mother arrived.

27

My mother sat stiffly in Mr. McKnight's study. She clutched a Kleenex that disintegrated as she spoke. “Your father will have to take charge, Peter. I can't help you.”

“I understand,” I said.

“I've called him at his job. He's flying up today. He has to be here.”

“All right.”

Her mouth twitched as she looked at me. “I thought I was pretty capable. Working, finishing up the job of raising my teenage son. I felt a little proud.”

Every syllable she uttered stung, but I couldn't answer. I had nothing to say that would comfort her.

“This is more than I can deal with. I'm not strong enough.”

“I know.”

“It's worse for you than it is for me. I'll bet you're surprised to hear me say this. But I do have compassion for you, Peter. Maybe I've been waiting for you to do something awful—get into some sort of problem with the law because I felt that then you could finally get help.”

She had obviously made up her mind to be strong and not cry, and I appreciated that.

She looked up at me from where she sat. “There's something wrong with you, Peter.”

“I don't know.”

“I know. I think you must be sick. Mentally sick. But I don't say this to blame you. You'll need a lot of help to turn into a person I can recognize as a human being.”

“I'm still human.”

“Of course you are. And I'm still your mother,” she said. “And you'll always be my son. I'll stand behind you as well as I can.”

In the car, I felt Mead in me again, opening like a small, white hand, a dancing figure. I forced myself to be who I was—Peter, leaning against the dashboard of a car, the seat belt pulling me back.

Mead, I begged the smiling, prancing figure. Please.

Please leave me alone.

What had begun as a pretense had become something I could not shake off, like a craving for booze. Mead kept flickering off and on in me, like a cigarette lighter. Mr. McKnight drove carefully, as though as long as he did not go over the speed limit, we would all be fine.

“You're going to have to be very strong for a while,” he said. “This little drive we're taking together is your last trip as your old, confused self.” He flipped the turn signal to change lanes. A beer truck was double-parked. “From now on, a whole lot is going to be different.”

“I want it to be different.”

“And, I should add, a whole lot is going to be expected of you. We're going downtown to see my old friend Mr. Green. He's in the district attorney's office. I especially want him to meet you.”

“Then we'll go see Inspector Ng?” I asked.

Mr. McKnight stopped as a light took its time changing from yellow to red. “Your old friend Ng's not in the picture anymore. You are now under the general category of what are called homicides.” He said this last word as though it didn't mean quite what it meant, like it was a term you might run across in sports or cooking.

“But don't worry, Peter,” he added. “The law will see you for what you are, not for what you, in your own mind, believe yourself to be.”

The district attorney was a younger man than I had expected. He seemed glad to see Mr. McKnight, and leaned on his elbows with friendly interest while Mr. McKnight spoke. They might have been planning a canoe trip.

Mr. McKnight did all the talking, and Mr. Green listened. He barely looked at me. I was a legal fact, now, not a person. Now and then Mr. Green would say, “Right,” not in agreement, necessarily, but simply registering that he had heard and recorded mentally what had been said.

I was turning myself in voluntarily, Mr. McKnight pointed out. I was quite possibly disturbed and should be hospitalized. I wanted to object, but Mr. McKnight had told me to sit quietly unless asked a direct question, and so I sat staring at the desktop. What struck me more than anything was how routine this was to these two men. Death. Confession. It was their line of work.

“The mother will agree. We'll all want that evaluation,” said Mr. McKnight. “And not just psychological. We'll want a substance abuse work-up. I think we have an alcohol dependency situation here. So no Juvenile Hall for this one, even overnight. Straight to Merritt Hospital.”

“Right.”

I spoke, shocking myself. “They'll have to go get him.”

Mr. Green looked at me, as though a stapler had spoken. “Him?”

“Mead.”

“They already have,” said Mr. McKnight. “I called them.”

They have taken Mead. The thought broke me, made me crouch in my seat. Now I knew it was real. Now I knew it was all over. They had Mead. Mead is under a sheet somewhere, or in a plastic body bag.

Mead is gone.

28

Sometimes a red-tailed hawk drifted over Camp Modoc. Its feathers played over the layers in the air, as though it stroked something solid but invisible. Sometimes a hawk would cry, its voice twisting and bright.

I worked in the kitchen, and I enjoyed the dumb muscular labor of it, lifting huge pots slathered with dried gravy. I rinsed dishes with a spray so strong each dish was clean in a flash. The garbage disposal was a huge trough, and the hole there growled, eating whatever we gave it.

The hearing, the psychological tests, the interviews with people in suits or uniforms, were all behind me, and my life was simple. The counselors listened to me, and we listened to each other. There were times when I wept so hard I could not speak, and yet I did not feel the world around me judging me, or watching me.

I felt myself growing stronger. The muddy puddles in me were evaporating. Camp Modoc was a place of great mammoth pine trees and, sometimes late at night, the snuffling sound of a bear. The sun was supposed to be both punishment and cure, hard beauty as medicine.

Sometimes my father visited. He wore lumberjack shirts, as though trying to fit into the surroundings, and he wore the new wedding ring.