Light of Day (33 page)

“Where are you going? Are you running away from home or something?”

Danny didn't answer the question, all he said was, “Brian's got Baker thinking things about me that aren't true. And I'm doing things that I know I shouldn't do. Hey, that rhymed.” Danny laughed through his chattering teeth.

“Brian never said anything to Baker. Danny, you're acting weird.”

“That's what I mean. You need me to remind you that it's okay to act weird sometimes.”

“Okay. But I'm getting cold out here. Let's go inside.”

“That worries me, too.”

“That I'm getting cold? You're not making any sense.”

“Is
he
?” Danny asked. “Just think, he's been out there all this time, in the rain and everything. He must be so cold and lonely.”

“Who?”

“Lamar Coggin. Is he making any sense?”

“I don't—”

“He's still out there. They haven't found him yet.”

“They must have.”

Danny shook his head.

“You didn't go back there, did you?”

“We'd have heard. We'd know.”

“Did you go back there, Danny?” C.J. realized he was shouting.

“I go back there every night. In my mind.” Danny was speaking in a soft monotone. “I see him hanging there. It's like he's asleep all alone out there. It's funny. I can't sleep and that's all he does. It's like a tradeoff, my sleep for his.” They walked a little further into the field. Mist was rising off the ground like a veil. “We all know better and we still behave the way we do. Now can you see why I'm worried about us?”

“Let's go back to the house, it's cold out here.”

“Funny, isn't it, how cold it's gotten these past few days. If it had been this cold last Friday we'd've never gone out to Otter Creek. Never gone swimming.”

“I can't stay out here much longer.”

“He's cold, too, you know.”

“Stop talking about him. You're scaring me.”

Danny rubbed the top of C.J.'s head and laughed. “Don't be scared.”

Mutt found something to chase and Danny called to him and whistled.

“I had dinner with my dad tonight,” Danny said. “He kept asking me why I wasn't eating. Why I looked so tired. I lied to him. What do you tell your folks when they ask why you aren't eating? Why you look tired?”

“They don't ask. I usually just eat with the twins and they don't give a shit about anyone.” They walked a little further. “I'm worried about you, Danny.”

“Worry about
you
. It's every man for himself.” Danny whistled for Mutt a second time, turned and walked toward the house.

“What's that mean?” C.J. said, following along.

Danny picked up the pace, walking faster and faster through the plowed ground.

“What's that mean?”

But Danny didn't answer.

Back at the house, they sat upstairs in Danny's room.

“You feel like watching TV?” C.J. asked.

“I feel like sitting here.”

“I could probably stay over if you like.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you think I'm acting weird, like Baker did?”

“No.”

“We
should
all be acting weird. We
are
all acting weird if you think about it.”

“What else can we do?” C.J. asked, a minute later.

“Do what you think is right. It's every man for himself.”

“I wish you'd stop saying that.”

“Go home. It's getting late.”

 

At school the next day, Danny was standing under the stairwell softly calling C.J.'s name.

“What are you doing?” C.J. asked.

“I just want to apologize for last night.” Danny's eyes looked dark and hooded. “I'm sorry I scared you like that.” Overhead, the stomp and clatter of student feet drowned out his voice. Danny might have said, “I shouldn't have done it.” Or, “I'm ashamed.” And then he said, “I'm sorry.”

“That's okay.” C.J. managed a smile.

“I have something for you.”

“Are you all right?”

Danny pulled his blue Hawaiian shirt out of his backpack. The shirt was balled up and full of creases. He thrust it into C.J.'s hand. “Take it.”

“What are you doing?”

“Take it. Please. I want you to have it. Really.” C.J. said, “Thanks,” because he didn't know what else to say.

More stomp and clatter and voices reverberating off the walls.

“Wear it at the lake this summer,” Danny said. “It'll be way cool.”

“Yeah…Cool…”

“Promise that you'll wear it for me this summer.”

“Sure, Danny. But why—”

“You have to stand up for yourself. You have to do it without my help, C.J.”

“What do you mean?” Danny was scaring him again. It was Danny's voice, the way his eyes homed onto C.J.'s face.

“You can't let them push you around.”

“Let who push me around?”

“Like they push me around.”

“Who's pushing you around?”

“You have to stand up for yourself. Even when it hurts.”

“We'll stand up for each other. Together,” C.J. said, looking for, expecting, some reassurance. But it wasn't there.

Danny stepped around him and walked up the stairs. C.J. called out for him to wait, but Danny only walked faster.

Danny wasn't in the cafeteria at lunchtime, and later in class, when the boys wanted to know where he'd been, Danny only said, “I had to take care of something.”

The boys could not get him to tell them what “something” was.

When Danny got off the bus that afternoon, the boys went with him. “Not today,” he told them. “Go on over to C.J.'s or something. I've got work to do.”

“What kind of work?” Brian wanted to know.

Danny gave Brian a long look and said, “Things. Just
things
. Don't you ever have things to do? Doesn't anyone but me have things to do?”

Brian said, “Take it easy.”

“You think I'm going to go back on my word?”

“Hell no. But you're our friend and you've been acting a little—”

“Weird?”

“No. Like you're not—”

“I have things to do.”

“Things,” Brian repeated.

“Things,” Danny said under his breath, and headed home. “Things.”

The boys kept a good distance behind, and if Danny knew they were following him, it didn't seem to bother him. He never turned around, he never looked back. He went inside the house, Mutt barked, a moment later the back door opened and closed and there was silence.

Brian told C.J, “I'm worried about him.”

“I am too,” C.J. said back. But that was all he would say. He didn't want to talk about last night or about this morning. He was trying to forget it, trying to convince himself that Danny would snap out of it. Talking about it to the other boys would only make it more real, and reality was not a friendly place these days.

Brian wanted to sneak inside “just to keep an eye on him.” Rick and C.J. talked him out of it. Instead, they parked themselves in the corner of the porch beneath the living room window.

“He's really going to like this,” Rick said, and rubbed his arms nervously. “Us spying on him.”

“It's not spying,” C.J. said.

“We just want to make sure he's okay,” Brian explained.

“What's he doing in there?” Rick whispered.

“How should I know?” Brian whispered back.

Rick started to stand. Brian pushed him down.

A minute or two passed and the boys were feeling pretty foolish crouched against the side of the house. C.J. wanted to leave. He was sure Danny would find them and “go ballistic.” But Brian said, “I want to make sure he's all right,” and they stayed where they were.

A few more minutes passed. Then they heard Danny playing the piano, softly, gently. He played unself-consciously and relaxed, one song, then another, and another after that. It put the boys at ease, it comforted them. Their guilt and conflict had exhausted them, now they closed their eyes and rested while Danny played. Maybe he chose the music to soothe his own nerves. Maybe it was to give himself courage for what was to come.

The music, sad and lonesome to their ears, made the boys feel quiet inside for the first time since the day at Otter Creek; as though Danny were playing a lullaby just for them. One song, a momentary pause, and
then another. One song to the next. Each played carefully and clean. The boys felt their breath catch in their throats.

C.J. began to sob, then Rick and Brian as the music played, coming at them, making them aware of the terrible thing they'd done until they could not bear what they were feeling.

First Brian stood, then Rick. C.J. remained. He said he wanted to listen for a few more minutes. Brian and Rick only nodded their heads, quietly swung themselves over the railing and walked away.

Danny never stopped playing. C.J. sat and listened. He wasn't worried that Danny would find him. But Danny never stopped. One song to the next, the pace never varying, or the intensity. It was a beautiful and lonely sound. Or was it C.J.'s own loneliness? One song to the next, with hardly a moment's pause. One song to the next. One song to the next.

C.J. stayed until sunset. When he got up, Danny was at the door.

“I was waiting for the other guys to leave.” Danny spoke softly, vacantly. “Do you want to come in now?” His voice, his presence, made C.J. uncomfortable.

“I better be going. Thanks.” And C.J. walked home in the quickening darkness.

The next morning, Danny wasn't on the school bus, or at his locker when classes started, and when C.J. called the house after first period, there was no answer.

Brian called and there was still no answer. “Maybe he just wants to be alone for now.”

At lunchtime, C.J. called, and Brian, then Rick. Each believing his touch would make the difference. But there was still no answer.

 

When the boys were told to meet at the Harrisons' house—Hal and Vicki Clarke sitting with Brian. Carl and Mandy Ainsley sitting with C.J., Rick sitting with Arthur and Celeste—they were sure they'd been found out. They drummed their fingers on the arms of chairs, their legs twitched and jiggled nervously. No one spoke, not even the adults, not for a minute or two. The boys assumed everyone was waiting for Danny.

When Arthur said, “Something terrible has happened,” Brian
looked sharply at Rick, whose face had gone pale. C.J.'s stomach turned and he started gagging. Then Arthur told them Danny had killed himself. The boys broke down and wept.

 

“It was an accident,” C.J. told Jack. “I should've told you—it was Brian's idea to go to your house—to see if Danny told—I mean—” He stared at the floor. “And when you started asking about…”

“You covered your lies with more lies.”

C.J. nodded his head. “Then we heard that they thought Lamar killed himself, and when we came back from vacation we heard about that man they arrested and it's just like Brian said.” He shifted uneasily. “I don't know—I mean, Brian never comes over—Dr. Owens,” he asked, “what are you going to do?”

“I'm not sure.”

Jack wanted to leave and he wanted to stay there all day. He wanted to grab C.J. and hug him for how pathetic and broken he looked. He wanted to beat the shit out of him and the rest of the boys. He wanted to take control of the situation. He wanted to fall apart. He wanted to tell the boys' parents, point fingers, lay blame. He wanted to decide what was best. He wanted to hide. He wanted to tell Marty. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to call his father. He wanted to dream about every good day he'd had with Danny. He wanted it all to happen simultaneously and he wanted none of it. He was overwhelmed by all there was to do and how little could be done. He could feel himself being pulled in a hundred directions at once—being pulled apart. It was a suffocating feeling, as though a blanket had been thrown over his head—as though a plastic bag…

Jack got up from the chair. His shirt was damp with sweat and made a thick adhesive sound as he pulled it away from his skin. “What the hell time is it, anyway?” He didn't wait for an answer, he walked to the door. “Your accident was no accident, was it? You were trying to kill yourself. There's been too much of that.” He told C.J., “Try to remember Danny as he really was.”

The sunlight hurt his eyes. His body ached. When he walked to his car each step made his head pound. If there is such a thing as mental
stasis, he had attained it. He experienced no cognition, there was nothing left to think, and if there were, it would have served no purpose. He had nothing left to lose and nothing remained to be saved. There was nothing he could feel in this moment that he hadn't felt all summer. There was nothing left to consider, no insight to lean on, no consolation. There was nothing to deconstruct, reconstruct, churn, dissect or analyze. There was nothing left but this: it was his little boy standing in the cold field. It was Danny alone out there.

T
he sun was shining above the ruins. Jack could smell the river in the air. He'd been sleeping in his car and was awake now only because Marty was shaking him. The top of the car was down, Marty was leaning over the passenger seat and smiling.

Jack groaned, “Oh shit.”

Marty seemed to be out of breath. He asked, “What are you doing out here?”

“Sleeping.”

“I guess you were.” Marty smiled again.

“What are
you
doing out here?” Jack squinted into the sunlight.

“Running. I saw your car and I—” His face was wet and sweat had soaked through his T-shirt. He was still out of breath. “Are you all right?”

“Working late. I was too tired to drive home so I stopped to take a nap.”

“Strange place to take a nap.”

Jack didn't acknowledge what was surely meant to be a question. He shaded his eyes and watched Marty's face. The face of his friend from the summer. The athletic-solid face that three months ago had done something remarkable and courageous with its eyes and expression when Jack needed to see that in the face of anyone who chose to come to
his door. Now the face was giving Jack a thorough going-over and the expression was neither remarkable nor courageous, just curious.

Marty might have had a quick smile at the first sight of Jack bunched up like the day's dirty wash, but he was looking at him slowly now, trying to get a good read, and he didn't seem at all amused by what he was facing. He pressed his lips tightly together, gave Jack a second looking-over, although he did a good job of making it look like nothing more than a quick glance, grunted “Hmm,” softly and unhappily. “I guess I'm a little surprised to find you sleeping in your car, and especially out here.”

Jack shrugged his shoulders innocently and offered no explanation. The sun was hot and the air warm but he felt cold to the bone.

Marty wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “You're sure you're okay?” His voice held that familiar tone of concern; and when Jack didn't answer, Marty leaned against the car door, looked across the park as though what he wanted from Jack lay among the broken bricks and Queen Anne's lace, or might be found riding downriver with the fallen branches. “Being here makes you feel close to Danny, doesn't it?”

Jack answered yes, it made him feel close to Danny, but that was all he said.

Marty waited a moment, then gave Jack another slow look, rested his arms on the car door, thrust his head slightly forward, looked straight into Jack's eyes, then down at his clothes, and made another pass at the eyes because it must not have been enough of an answer and Marty didn't seem to know what to do about it. Not that the expression on his face was the expression of someone looking for a lie, or maybe he hadn't started out looking for it but wound up looking nonetheless, the way you start rummaging through the attic looking for the dusty old year-book with the goofy pictures and puerile sentiment, then you notice the sagging cardboard box and suddenly you're digging through the baby clothes and the tarnished trophies. Or you're down in the basement trying to find your old lecture notes. Only you don't know the dangers of your determination, and you may not be prepared for what's lying around down there, which is what Jack wanted to tell Marty, his friend from the summer who had no reason to think anything had changed
from last week, or yesterday. His friend from the summer, who was working on the old assumptions. Who said what a friend from the summer would say. Expected the answers a friend from the summer would expect. And when there were no answers, or not the kind of answers to satisfy him, Marty couldn't help but be a little curious.

“I guess with school about to start you've been playing a bit of catch-up.”

“That's right.”

“And you're—”

“I'm all right. Really. Just a late night.”

Marty kept looking him over but he couldn't walk away, not without knowing more than he started with. Not without seeing what made the cabinet wobble.

Jack wondered what Marty would think if he told him his cautionary tale about what rummaging through cartons and cabinets gets you; about finding out more than your expectations prepared you for. What would Marty do? Would he call off the search or would he keep looking, thinking there was nothing he didn't want to know, nothing he wasn't prepared to find?

“I'm all right.”

“Well, I've got to tell you, you look—”

“Just hard work,” Jack said, working a smile.

“Yeah. It's like that sometimes. But I have to say, seeing you out here like this. You had me worried for a minute.” Marty was still looking.

“You have more important things to worry about, even for a minute.”

I don't know about that.” Marty said, “I guess I've felt protective about you for these past few months, so if I'm overstepping the bounds—if being back at work's too much too soon for you and you feel like talking about it—”

“It's nothing. Nothing like that. I was too tired to drive, so I stopped and fell asleep.” That was all the truth he could offer.

“Fair enough.” Marty put his hand on Jack's shoulder. “But we've
never pulled our punches before so let's not start now, okay?”

Marty was ready to ride to the rescue. It was only that. He hadn't been looking for the lie at all. He was only doing what he'd been doing all summer. He was only working on summer assumptions.

Jack wondered if he could tell Marty that Danny had killed that little boy? Could he tell Marty about accidents and expectation? Isn't that what friends were for? Could he tell him that Danny was driven mad. Tell him, “I need you to help me protect my son.” Would Marty help him protect Danny even in death, especially in death? Would he know a way out of this? Would he help or would he turn cop? Would he do his duty?

Jack had the urge to say, “This is what you're looking at.” To tell him, “This is what you're seeing. This is why you found me here this morning.”

He wanted to tell him because it was Marty, who babysat him through his compulsions. Who said, “Go easy on yourself,” when Jack was beating himself to a pulp. Who sat on the curb with him through the long, hot night. Who sat with him at lunch and cocktails and talked about love and marriage and all the things that can go wrong. Jack wanted to fall back on Marty the way he had all summer. He wanted to tell him all about Danny and C.J. and Rick and Brian. Isn't that what friends were for? He would say: “Danny and his friends killed Lamar Coggin.” He would say: “This is your chance to save Joseph Rich and stick it to Hopewell at the same time. Only sticking it to Hopewell has nothing to do with it, does it.”

Jack could feel the words and the pulse of energy driving them: “Let me tell you why you found me here…” Maybe that's what he was going to say, or maybe he only thought it was when he turned toward Marty, who had a look of expectation on his face, as though this were just another morning; an expression Jack had spoken to since the day Marty appeared at the house, an expression he could speak to now, if he looked at nothing else, if he didn't stop to take the measure of his words. With less effort than it took
not
to speak, he could swallow hard and say, “The hell with it. Let me tell you why you found me here,” looking only at the expression, listening only to the voice that held that familiar tone of concern—“Can I trust you, Marty? Can I trust you to
protect my son?”

But Jack couldn't get himself to speak. All he could do was stare back in silence and feel sour inside. All he could do was pity Danny, who stood shivering in the night and felt Lamar's dead chill. All he could do was pity Marty when he leaned against the car, in the neighborly way he'd learned to do as a boy, and gave Jack another looking-over; because this was no way to treat a friend. Or, Jack wondered, was it more than just protecting Danny? Was he also protecting Marty? By his silence, was he protecting Marty from having to make the same choice Danny had to make—the same choice Jack had to make? Was that why he couldn't say it, because he didn't want Marty to have to make the choice? Or was it because he didn't know what Marty would choose and he was not about to put him to the test, even if Marty had passed a summer's worth of tests already. Or was it because Marty also had a summer's worth of expectations, expectations of Jack Owens and what Jack Owens expected of Marty Foulk and, doubtless, what Marty Foulk expected of himself?

Or, Jack wondered, was he simply protecting himself?

Marty didn't say anything. If he was giving Jack time to think things over, then Jack would take it. He raised his eyes to the ragged rows of hemlock and oleander that grew along the edge of the road, the weeds that inhabited the ruins, the trampled grass and wildflowers at the top of the hill where Danny had died.

Marty was getting ready to ride to the rescue but there was nothing left to save. There was hardly enough of Jack to feel the shame of his deception. Hardly enough to be aware of what was missing—Anne had said, “The absence of anything, some element, creates the presence of something else.” Jack wondered what was present in the absence of his shame. “You weren't being intrusive,” was all he managed to say.

Marty nodded his head. “Listen, I've got to get over to the station, but I'll take a quick shower and buy you breakfast.”

“I've really got to get some sleep.”

“What the hell was I thinking?” Marty took a few steps back. “I'll give you a call later. We'll talk.” And he began running slowly across the sorry grass toward the road.

Jack watched, expecting, at any moment, for the morning light to telescope and slowly fade to black, not like Chaplin's tramp, more like the samurai, with only his handful of rice and code of honor for company. Or Virgil Tibbs hopping the train out of Sparta, Mississippi, leaving Bill Gillespie sadly behind. Shane riding off into the big sky and into the child's consciousness.

“Hey,” Jack called out. “Hey. Wait a minute.” He drove up the road and shouted, “I can't let you leave like that. I'll drive you back to the station.”

Marty stopped running and waited for him. “I'd like that,” he said, and got in the car.

They crossed the railroad tracks and rode down Third Street. They were silent now, like the day at the chicken shack when they were more strangers than friends. They were silent until they passed the county jail, where a crowd of people, three deep, was picketing, carrying posters and banners and bigger-than-life photos of Lamar Coggin with “He Could Have Been Your Son” printed across his chest in large black letters. And: “He's Everyone's Son.” And: “To Die in Vain?”

“What's all that?”

“They're going to make sure Rich's public burning comes off without a hitch,” Marty said, unhappily.

Jack stepped on the gas and quickly put the crowd behind them. “Does he have any chance?”

“If he gets a good enough lawyer, stranger things have happened. My guess is he doesn't.”

“He can always appeal, can't he? I mean, if they find him guilty.”

Marty glanced over at him but said nothing.

When Jack stopped in front of the police station, Marty slid out of the seat, said, “Thanks for the lift,” headed inside, stopped and said, “How about if I sneak out later and take you up on that movie?”

“Fair enough.” And Jack drove away.