Shadow Man (3 page)

“Are you sure?” he's saying. “How'd it happen?” So then he was supposed to go identify Gabe, like the cops didn't already know he was ours. I kept my eyes closed so I wouldn't have to go. The cops said it wasn't a rush kind of deal.

Ma said she was going. Frank said no, it wasn't something for a woman.

I didn't see what happened next, but it sounded like she spit at him.

Ma went into her room and shut the door. I was lying there thinking. I kept wishing I were dreaming. I wanted to get up and get something to drink, but I didn't want to talk to my father.

After a while they went down to the funeral parlor. Since they got back, Ma hasn't said a word. Not a thing. She's sitting on her bed, just staring, not crying. Gerald went out of here raving like a maniac, saying he was going to kill James. Ma didn't even try to stop him.

When he left, Gerald almost ran over the dog. Frank had tied him up outside because he wouldn't quit barking. He still wouldn't stop. Frank said, “I'm going to shoot him!” So I went out and let Jack loose. He ran down the road, looking for Gabe, I guess.

Oh, man, my head is pounding.

Got to pull myself together and quit doing all this stuff. It's getting me all screwed up. Gabe says—

There's the damn phone again. It won't stop ringing. Everybody's calling. Ma won't come to the phone. Even when it's her own sister. Frank said, “Kat, it's Abby.” She still wouldn't take it. He's got to do all the talking.

I wonder who he's talking to now. He's pissed. If this was the old days, he'd rip the phone out of the wall. He's saying, “Yes, yes, I'll be right down,” looking lean and mean as a knife. We never called him Dad. He's just our father. Some people call him Francis or Franny.

When I was little I used to think he wasn't my real father 'cause he didn't act like I was his son. People say I look just like him and his dad, my grandpa. I hated that old bastard, but I loved my grandma. She died when I was little. Her name was May June. Her hands were real soft. She smelled like perfume. I can't picture her in my mind anymore, though, and Frank tore up all the pictures one time when he was drunk. But I remember her being huggy and warm and singing me baby songs.

I was trying to pretend I was still asleep, but Frank's standing by the couch, talking to me.

He says, “I have to go down to the police station. Get the phone if it rings.”

“What about Ma?”

“What about her?”

“She won't talk.”

“She's upset.” Frank blows out blue cigarette smoke, which makes him cough, which makes him even madder. But I'm not afraid of Frank anymore. I'm twice as strong as him. The old days are over.

He puts on a jacket. “I'll be back in a while. Clean up that mess.”

“What mess?”

He points. “You puked.”

Oh, man, what a way to start the day. My baby brother's dead and I'm covered with puke. I've got to get myself together. The problem's not the booze, which I wouldn't need if I didn't have to take the edge off the speed so I can sleep. The problem is I don't have, what do you call it, I don't see myself right. That's the thing. I'm not a bad person. I'm a good person. I could do something big. I need to start over. Clean. I'm not too old, only twenty-five. Twenty-six, I had a birthday last week. Nobody did nothing, no cake or anything, except Gabe gave me a wallet made of genuine leather with a twenty-dollar bill inside. I went down to the Elbow Room and bought everybody drinks.

Too bad I can't check into one of those places where the movie stars go to dry out. Those places cost thousands of bucks. Big money. When you're poor, nobody cares what you do. You could die in the street, they'd sweep you up.

The hell with them. I can make it by myself. That's what Gabe always tells me. I'll do it for Gabe. No booze, no dope. I'll quit smoking too, but not today. There's too much going on now. My brother's dead and my head is killing me. He'll still be dead tomorrow.

I can't believe it. I saw him last night. He was fine, he was laughing and smiling. My baby brother is dead! Where did he go? Is he up in heaven with my grandma? Can you see me, Grammy? Why is life so stupid? Why do all the good people die and the people like Frank live forever?

There's the phone again. I'm all out of smokes. I had a pack. Gerald must've taken them.

8

Francis McCloud

One good thing was, he didn't look too bad. I was afraid he'd be all messed up. A good-looking boy like Gabriel … that would've been hard on his mother.

I didn't want her going down to the funeral parlor, but she just got in the truck and gave me this look like—you'd think I'd killed him. I tried to talk to her, but she wouldn't talk.

At the funeral parlor Morrison rushed out and shook my hand before I could stop him. When I think about him touching my baby boy—

His mother went in to see him first. I thought we should go in together. “I want to see him alone,” she said. Her face was like a rock.

She went into this room while I waited in the hall. There was awful music playing and the light was all wrong. I felt like I was underwater.

Katherine let out a scream—it cut right through me. I started to go in there, but Morrison stopped me. He put his hand on my arm and said, “Better wait, Franny,” so I sat down and smoked a cigarette.

When Katherine came out she walked right past me and into the parking lot. I heard the truck drive off, but I didn't get mad. The look on her face had spooked me.

“I'll give you a ride home later,” Morrison said. “Do you want me to go in there with you?”

I said I didn't. But he'd guessed right; I was afraid to see my own son. Just like at the hospital, when he was born. Kat was propped up in the bed, looking tired but happy, this tiny little face in the crook of her arm. Gabe was a beautiful baby. Even the nurses said so; he was so pretty and peaceful and pink. I stood in the doorway, afraid to go in, shy about laying any claim to him. He looked like something only Katherine had done, like he couldn't have come from me.

Morrison said he'd be right outside if I needed him. I opened the door and walked in. Gabe was on a table across the room, with sheets pulled up to his chin.

His skin was almost glowing and his hair was so bright it looked like light. I pulled off my hat.

I walked over to Gabe and looked down at his face. Suddenly it hit me: This was real, this was happening. My boy was dead. My boy is dead! And this … terrible wave rose up in my chest and I thought: Oh, son, how can it all be done? How can it be too late?

My brain felt like it was being ripped out, like a tree going over in a storm; all the roots ripped up and the wind roaring—I had to get out of that room. I had to leave him.

Morrison wasn't in the hall, but his kid was there. He said to sit down, his dad would be right with me. That kid is such a poor excuse for a man. Soft as a girl, no muscles or balls. I'd be ashamed to have a kid like him. But what can you expect, with a father like that, who milks the dead for a living?

Morrison drove me home. He smelled like soap. His fingers looked like slugs on the steering wheel. “We'll get him ready,” he said. “Unless you want him cremated.”

“Ready for what?”

“The funeral.”

“That's fine, I guess.” Things were going too fast. Katherine usually handles stuff like that, anything having to do with the kids.

“Don't worry about it. I'll call you later,” he said. “And don't hesitate to ask if you need anything, Franny. You and me go back a long way.”

We've despised each other for years. But I saw something new in Morrison's eyes and I realized it was pity. He felt sorry for me, that slimy pervert, with his crazy wife and fairy son. I could've slugged him. Then I remembered about Gabe and I felt so weak, like all my blood was gone.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said. “I'll talk to you later.” His black Caddy crunched down the road.

David was in the living room, looking real panicked. He said, “Ma won't talk to me. She just won't talk. Even if you ask her something.”

I went down the hall. We have our own rooms. It wasn't my idea.

Katherine was sitting on the edge of her bed. I stood in the doorway. She looked up and saw me. Then she reached out and pushed the door closed.

9

Donald Morrison

Dad worked on Gabriel for a while, and now it looks like Gabe's just sleeping. His cheeks are pink and his eyes are closed. He looks so peaceful.

In a way, that's worse than when they're all torn up, because you look at them and think: Why don't you just wake up and we can make believe none of this happened. I could walk across the room and say, Gabe, wake up, and it would turn out he was only sleeping off a drunk.

Too bad wishes don't come true.

I've been sitting here, looking at him and thinking. I used to wish I were Gabe. It seemed like he had everything. He was really good-looking, and funny too. Everybody liked him, even adults.

He didn't make fun of me like the other kids did. Not that he was a saint. Sometimes he'd smile at the stuff people said (“Donald, you get a lot of stiff ones in that hearse? Haw haw!”), but he wouldn't let them get too mean.

Like that time years ago on the football field. There was a bunch of kids around me. They were going to pants me. Gabe stopped them.

“What's all this?” he said, walking up, just one of the boys, mildly interested.

“Donald needs some sun. His cheeks are pale,” Reynolds said. “He's been lying in a coffin too long.”

I remember it was one of those perfect autumn days when you think, Yes, life's worth living. The sky was so blue. Then boys were pulling on me, pushing. I could feel their hot breath. They wanted something to happen.

“Don't you boys have anything better to do?” Gabe didn't sound critical; more like he was just wondering.

“He's a fruit,” Reynolds said.

“How do you know?” Gabe asked. “Are you speaking from experience?”

Reynolds looked mad, but he wouldn't fight Gabe. The boys melted away, disappointed.

That meant a lot to me. It wouldn't have been the first time that had happened. Gabe's brother Gerald was in my grade. He threw me out of the locker room naked. I felt like he'd killed me, like I'd died of embarrassment. I didn't go back to school for a week. Once when we were kids he threw dog-doo at me. I said, “You stupid idiot! You got it on your hands!” He wiped them all over my clothes.

People think I'm gay. I'm not. I don't know what I am. I'm almost twenty-one years old and the only females I've ever kissed are my mother and my sister.

When girls find out what I do for a living, they don't want me to touch them. As if death were contagious and could be caught by holding hands. Like this girl I met in Ukiah last summer. We went out a few times: We really liked each other. Then I told her that I help my father. She changed; she looked at me so strangely, as if I'd done something bad. The next time I asked her out, she made excuses. I heard she went away to school.

I am not cut out to be a mortician. So what if it's a family tradition? Does it have to be passed from generation to generation, like a weak chin or heart disease? Once, I said that to my father. He didn't say a word; he just looked at me. The disgust on his face spoke volumes.

My sister Karen thinks he hides his feelings, that he's learned to bury his emotions or he'd go crazy in this job. Because no matter how hard he tries, he can't make his customers happy.

My feeling is, he doesn't have any feelings. Maybe he had some a long time ago, but his father froze them out of him. As his father did to him, as his father did to him.… It goes back so far, who do you blame? Maybe I'm the one who'll have to break the chain, so I'll have a chance with my own kids someday, to be all the things that my dad can't be: warm and loving and understanding.

A lot of people are buried with their wedding rings. I wonder if I'll ever get married.

I miss my sister. She's the only person who understands what it's like around here. She ran away from home when she was eighteen, into a lousy marriage. Her husband's a jerk. They're always broke. But she's got two little kids and she feels stuck. My father has never forgiven her for leaving. He says, “She made her own bed. Now let her sleep in it.” My mother sends her money on the sly.

I want to leave too, but my mother begs me not to, because then she'd be alone with him. They never kiss or touch. They don't even argue. Why does she stay here? My mother's not crazy. Or maybe she is, I don't know.

I'm worried about Jennie. Gabe's death is going to kill her. Once she told me: I couldn't live without him. That's ridiculous, I said, but she wouldn't listen. When it comes to loving Gabe, she's so stubborn.

I called her house a while ago. “We don't know where she is,” her mother said, crying. “She must've heard me on the phone.”

We agreed that she probably needs some time alone. Mrs. Harding said she'd give Jennie my message as soon as they found her.

I used to wish I were Gabe. I used to wish he were my brother. Gabe had it all. Now he's got nothing.

I better go splash cold water on my face. My dad would get mad if he caught me crying.

10

Gabriel McCloud

I feel so stupid. I have nothing to say. But I have to write 250 words.

I feel so stupid. I have nothing to say. Let's see that's 28 so far only 222 to go.

Dear Mrs. Sanders,

Hi! How are you! Well, not much is new here so I'll sine off.

Yours Truely,

Gabriel McCloud

You should see the SHADOW MAN comic sometime. I just got the new one. They sell them at the liquor store. That dude is so cool! He looks at people with those big spooky eyes and they lissen! That would come in handy around my house you can't get a word in thier allways screaming. Usally two people so nobody hears what the other ones saying. There just shouting. Its like Madison Swquare Garden there. Just kidding.