Forgive Me, Alex (12 page)

I struggled to recapture my composure as we rode home from the morgue.

The chief let me.

When we arrived, Dad was sitting in a lawn chair at the back end of the driveway. He held a glass in one hand, a bottle of Jack Daniel's in the other. We got out of the car and I stared at him for a minute.

"Tony, why don't you go inside the house? I need to talk to your father."

"Listen, Chief, I appreciate—"

"Just go in the house, Tony. Please."

Despite his soft voice, I knew better than to argue with him. Besides, he might succeed where I would probably have failed. I nodded and started for the door without looking at Dad.

"What's the matter, Son, you don't want to talk to the old man?" He practically laughed, and added in a quiet slur, "Hell, I can't say I blame you. I wouldn't want to talk to me either."

I jogged on and entered the house. Once through the door, I stepped to the side, out of sight but still able to hear what they said.

The chief sighed and in a dry, sharp voice, said, "Mr. Hooper."

"Howdy, Chief Radlon. Hell, we're practically friends now. Forget that mister stuff and call me Hank."

"I'm not your friend,
Hank
. I might be, if you could manage to set aside your self-pity and stop being an
asshole
for a few minutes."

I couldn't help it; I had to peek around the edge to see what was happening. I remained quiet. Dad stared at the chief as emotions flashed across his face—confusion, self-pity, embarrassment, rage.

"Why you lousy, self-righteous sonuvabitch! What do you know about it, huh? Have you lost a wife? Have you lost a child? Well, have you, goddamn it?"

"There's no denying that you've had a tough time of it. So has Tony." He maintained his even tone. "Guess you've been too busy to notice."

The accusation stung my dad. He looked at the chief through those terribly bloodshot eyes, but he could muster no response.

"Your son did something today that no boy should have to do, at least no boy who has a father. That was
your
task.
You
should have been there."

Dad took another drink and stared at his feet.

The chief waited.

"Not being there is my way," Dad said. "I wasn't there, not
really
there, for the boys after my wife died. I didn't know how. Hell, Tony was more of a father to Alex. Then I wasn't there when the killer took Alex. I should have been there. He'd still be alive."

He drained his glass and almost fell out of the chair.

"Now what? I'll finally be there for Tony?" He laughed—a choking sound that dripped with disgust and self-loathing. "What can I tell you, Chief? When it comes to being a father, I pretty much suck."

He raised the bottle to pour another drink, and fell out of the chair.

The chief leaned over and placed a hand on Dad's neck. "Passed out. Shit."

I stare at my wine glass, relieved that the story of those terrible days in 1978 is over. The third bottle of wine is now empty. Like my heart.

Perhaps I needed to tell it at last, but the long story, filled with so much grief and sorrow, such powerful guilt, has rendered me limp. I can barely keep myself together. I have no energy left. My emotions have poured out.

Mostly.

I turn up my glass and chug the last several ounces of Cabernet, all the while struggling to slow my heart and fighting against the deluge.

Linda watches me, and the sadness I see—the caring, the tenderness, the moisture in her eyes—is the final straw. I lay my head on her shoulder and she places her arm around me.

I can do nothing more. I need a release.

For the third time in twenty years, I cry.

Alex, can you ever forgive me?

"Loneliness comes in two basic varieties. When it results from a desire for solitude, loneliness is a door we close against the world. When the world instead rejects us, loneliness is an open door, unused." – Dean Koontz,
Forever Odd

~~~~~

The sun rested on my old bones like the heating pad I kept near my La-Z-Boy, a welcome thing at my age. The sky sparkled in a hollow, pale blue—something between off-white and transparent—and the world exploded into green everywhere. Winter had drifted away, only a bad memory now, and good riddance. My garden, my living, breathing kaleidoscope, burst in color and sprayed a live perfume to please the senses.

Such a glorious day might have soothed the soul, had it not been one of the worst of all possible days. Distress ripped at my soul, and snatched my breath as though I'd taken a hard punch to the chest.

Today we'd lain to rest my grandson, Alex.

Though not related, I'd considered the Hooper boys my grandsons for many years. They'd brought joy and light to an old man, enlivened my solitary life. Now only Tony remained, a boy for whom I'd have done anything and given everything. Few things in life devastated so profoundly as a child's death, an event properly reserved for old farts like me. The world had stood before him, bracing for his bright future.

Alas, his light no longer shined.

Everything had flipped upside down. Alex should someday have stood over
my
grave and celebrated
my
life. The world would have made more sense if only I could have traded places with him, and I'd have been content to do so.

I tried never to be angry with God. On that unholy day... well, I had to try harder.

I'd attended the funeral, a fit and proper event filled with black suits, black dresses and red eyes, to say goodbye to the beloved Alex. I'd also provided a shoulder for Hank Hooper to lean on. He'd needed it.

Tony had embraced his girlfriend, the lovely young Diana, for moral support.

No real surprise; he'd handled the whole thing much better than his father had. Tony was strong. Hank was weak. That was just about the nut of it.

Hank had drifted throughout the ceremony, lost and unsure what he should say or do. Tony had stared at the ground with the slightest hint of a smile, as though voyaging through the memories of his many special experiences with Alex—
exactly
how his little brother would have liked it. That Alex was a real smart one, for a boy his age, oozing empathy to which most of us could only aspire.

Many people had gathered afterwards at the Hooper place, and I made an appearance for a short time. Some of Tony's relatives had been there, people he rarely saw and didn't much care for. Some of those folks gave me the willies. Their wooden smiles and plastic words said one thing, but their eyes said something entirely different. Phonies! I understood why Tony felt as he did, why he'd avoided them all day and had spent his time with me or with Diana and some neighborhood kids.

I'd escaped with little fanfare and without saying anything. No one would miss me. They had plenty else to worry about.

Now seated on my patio with a fine cognac in hand, I enjoyed my garden and the perfect weather. I wasn't a real big drinker, but it was okay on a day like today. I'd probably have a second. Maybe a third. I could sure as hell use it.

I flinched when the squeaky gate of mine yelled out. I needed to oil those hinges. The arrival of my visitor didn't surprise me, though he arrived sooner than I'd anticipated.

Tony plunked down in the chair next to me and looked at the garden without saying a word. I swayed gently in my rocker and took another sip of cognac, happy to oblige his desire for quiet.

After a couple minutes of silent reverie, he looked over and examined my drink. "I don't suppose you have another one of those?"

I thought about it for a minute. He was only eighteen but, what the hell—at eighteen, already in the army, I'd been drinking for two years.

"Given the circumstances," I said, "I think you're entitled. Sit tight."

A few minutes later, I returned with another snifter and a nearly full bottle of Courvoisier VSOP cognac.

I poured him a perfect two fingers. "Here you go. This is fine liquor, so no ice."

"Thanks, that sounds good."

He downed most of it in one huge gulp, and twisted his face into contortions as though I'd forced him to eat dog poop.

He stuttered through his coughing, "Wow! That's... pretty... strong stuff."

"You get used to it. It's a smooth cognac, a gentleman's drink—for sipping, not gulping. Take it a little slower."

"I'd say that advice is a few seconds late."

We chuckled, settled back and rocked for several minutes, me in a gentle, grandfatherly rhythm, him as though in the race of his life. His blank expression, as he stared at the garden, occasionally retreated under a palpable sadness. It broke my heart all over again, but I pushed it away.

He needed me to be strong for him, to stand in where his dad failed.

He took a deep breath and continued. "I don't know why exactly, but I expected it to be storming like crazy—something biblical, real Wrath of God stuff. It would have been more appropriate."

"Ah, nonsense! A boy like Alex deserves a bright and joyful day. He'd have wanted it this way, and it's how I'll always remember him. A day like today makes that easier, sort of finishes the point."

He took a deep breath, clearly trying to fight back the tears, and exhaled in a heavy sigh. "I suppose that's one way to look at it. Everybody at the house sure seems to be in a good mood. All those damned relatives laughing and reminiscing, as though it's a fucking family reunion or something, as though they gave a shit about Alex! Everybody kept coming up to me and hugging me and saying shit like, 'Oh, poor Tony, I'm so, so sorry.'"

He shook his head and nearly spit, "Aaaaah! I had to get out of there before I punched one of them in the goddamned face."

What could I say to calm him? Best let him vent, though it was unlike the boy to throw around so much profanity. He was usually so polite, but I understood. We all had our limits.

"Diana and her parents left. Then my friends took off.
Man!
After that, there was
nobody
there I wanted to be around."

I knew all too well that he included his father in that sentiment.

He waved his hands in gesture over his formal suit. "So here I am, still in this get-up, drinking cognac. Frankly, I'd prefer a beer."

"You know where the fridge is, and your legs aren't broken."

When he went inside, I couldn't help but wonder how he'd recover from this. He'd suffered so much loss for a boy his age. He'd lost his mother three years ago, and now he'd lost the boy who'd meant more to him than anyone in the world. A person my age expected a significant amount of loss, accrued over a long life, but a boy his age shouldn't have experienced such things. He'd gotten too much of a head start on life's miserable, more painful experiences.

He would graduate from high school soon, and he'd head off to college in the fall. In the meantime, I feared the impending summer would be most difficult for him.

If only I could have helped him somehow.

"Men must have corrupted nature a little, for they were not born wolves, and they have become wolves." – Voltaire

~~~~~

The newspaper story said his name was Alex Scott Hooper—ASH in Tommy's name game. That was damn funny—ASH to ashes. The article listed his father as Henry Allen Hooper—HAH. Fuckin' hilarious! His brother, my nemesis, was Anthony Stephen Hooper—ASH as well. Interesting. His mother had been deceased for three years.

"Aw, aren't they a poor, sad family?"

The Reaper didn't answer. He might still have been pissed at me.

Bloodstains lingered on the workbench and on the floor of the shed, in my new work place, home of my second and much more exciting job. I performed my new duties here, though I had a shitload to learn.

I'd sent ASH to ashes, all right, but the demon had screamed in fury and frustration because I'd fucked it up so badly. I was supposed to torture the boy. He was to perish only after the pain had become too terrible to endure. Instead, the little shit had died instantly—a complete fuck-up on my part.

I was new and inexperienced at torture. I'd made a mistake.

I cut the hardheaded little fucker up though, and fed him to the Beast, which should'a counted for something with the Reaper. It served the little shit right after the way his head had hurt my hand. It
still
hurt to make a fist. Little fucker.

I'd pleaded with the Reaper and assured him I'd do better next time.

I think he believed me, but he'd stepped up my training and subjected me to grueling hours of instruction every night since. Sleep remained a vague memory; I had no time for such "trifles," according to that bastard. I had to learn my lessons well and get it right the next time, or lack of sleep, as he'd made quite clear, would be the least of my fuckin' worries.

In the meantime, I'd outfitted the shop with knives, saws, shears, a hammer, a mallet, pliers, a pick, a shovel, and plenty of plastic bags and rubber gloves. I'd stocked up on cleansers, disinfectants, sponges, a mop and a bucket. Good to go.

I doubted anybody ever came to that ancient shack, but I latched the door and put a padlock on it—just in case. If someone cut the lock off, I'd need a new workshop. I might lose my tools if that happened, but there weren't nothin' I could do about that.

Now I wanted to see how things were going at the Hooper house.

"
That
should be fun."

***

Trees surrounded my usual parking spot on the little gravel trek, barely more than a country alley, called Cermak Road. I parked as far back as I could while keeping a good view of the Hooper house. Cars lined the street up and down Cary Road in front of their place, and the driveway was full, as they entertained everyone who'd come to express their condolences.

"ASH to ashes and dust to dust. Too sad."

What
really
interested me was that old '67 Bonneville parked in the grass next to the garage—that fuckin' Tony's car.

"That sucker is like a ship on wheels. Probably seats about twenty."

I laughed; couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so damn good. I expected Hooper to take me to my angel today. Diana must have been there to comfort him, or else he'd go to her at some point. If it had been me, I'd—

"What the hell do we have here?"

Hooper appeared on a bicycle at the end of the dirt road, directly across the street, wearing a black suit.

"Not exactly the latest in biking attire, Tony-boy."

He looked up and down the road and hesitated, like he didn't want to go home, or like—

"Shit! He's looking right at me."

Easy, Mitchell,
the Reaper said,
he can't see you through the windshield glare. Even if he could, it wouldn't matter. He has no idea who you are.

Hooper rode to his house and jogged inside, and I settled back into my surveillance. It was kinda boring, but I tried to think about Diana. I could still see her face in my mind's eye, and I hoped like hell that fuckin' Tony would—

"Speak of the devil."

Hooper reappeared, alone and dressed more casually, and jumped into his car. He managed to skirt the sea of parked vehicles, driving through the yard and the front ditch, to make his way out.

"My, my, but ain't he determined to escape the festivities?"

I followed him like the cops did it in the movies. I couldn't get so close that he could
make
me, but I couldn't lose him, either. I had no idea where he was going—it could'a been anywhere—but I hoped to hell he'd lead me to my angel.

He turned left on Highway 31, down the hill into town, and then right at the light, toward Lake-in-the-Hills. I remained a few cars behind.

"Hell, this ain't so tough."

He turned right into an old subdivision, and I followed. Narrow roads snaked through the neighborhood and... he'd vanished! He could'a turned on any of several streets. I looked left and right, forward and back, and left and right again. My hands dampened with sweat as my customary panic welled up.

Damn it, Mitchell, if you've lost him, I'll—

"There it is!"

He sat in a driveway where a girl was already getting into the car. It happened too fast, and I couldn't quite make her out, but it
must
be Diana.

I drove to the next little crossroad and waited as he backed out of the driveway and headed off in the other direction. I turned around to follow and, as I passed her house, checked out the number on their mailbox. At the corner, I read the name on the street sign.

"All right, I have an address, but is it my
angel's
address? It must be, but there's only one way to find out for sure. Besides, I'm getting good at this, don't you think?"

The Reaper didn't answer. He was funny that way.