The Fifth Circle (24 page)

I placed my hand on my belly and prayed I’d never know
how it felt to be the mother of a killer.

***

Mediation was in my blood. After watching my mom intervene between my dad and everything that pissed him off, I had a natural talent for bringing warring factions together. I just never thought I’d have to be the go-between with Mom and Claire.

Claire was angry. She hadn’t shed one tear, nor had she wavered in her stance that Dad’s death was a blessing for the world in general. Once, she even declared Sean a “national fucking hero
,” and Mom slapped her across the face.

“Whatever differences you and your father had, he’s dead now and you need to bury your grievances with him.”

“Are you high? Differences? Grievances? He raped me for four years! And you didn’t want to know, so you ignored it.”

My mom threw herself across the stiff motel
bedspread and cried. Neither one of us made a motion to comfort her. Claire was right. Mom was just as much to blame as our father. I just chose not to rub it in her face while the body was still warm.

The funeral came and passed. Aunt Carrie made a big scene at the burial site, but that was to be expected. Once again, she blamed me for my father’s death. I had to hold Claire’s arms behind her back so she wouldn’t attack our aunt. There’d been enough bloodshed in our family.

Claire went back to Columbia, and Mom and I went to stay with Uncle Alan. It had been a week since the murder, and we couldn’t bring ourselves to sleep in the house we’d lived in since I was three. Mom couldn’t bear the thought of what had happened under that roof; neither could I. Mom had bad dreams about the murder. I had nightmares that he was still alive.

I staggered under the crushing weight of guilt—guilt that I carried the child of my father’s killer and guilt that I felt relief my father was dead. I knew I should hate Sean, but I didn’t. Nor did I agree with Claire’s assessment that Sean
had performed a heroic task.

Only fear prevailed. Fear of prosecution. Fear of imprisonment for a crime I didn’t commit. Fear my mother would fall apart, that Claire would never come home again, that
I’d never get my life together, that I’d raise a child who would be the same weak, pathetic creature I’d become.

Despite everything, I worried about Sean and I worried about his mother. I
hadn’t spoken to her since the murder. Even when the detective allowed me to remove my personal belongings from her house, I didn’t see her. It was time to call her.

“Mrs. Droste?”

“Oh, Alex, I’m so sorry,” she wept. I waited while she composed herself. For several minutes, she gasped and heaved into the phone. With a great sniffle, she said, “I don’t know what to say. I’m just so sorry for what happened.”

“It isn’t your fault,” I replied. “I’m sorry too. Have you talked to Sean?”

“Yes. He’s a mess, Alex. He can’t remember what happened. The public defender called it a dissociative state.”

I read about that in psychology class.
His mind was somewhere else when he did it, like he was looking down at himself from above, or like he dreamed the whole thing. Part of his mind split from the rest and he had only a vague recollection of committing the horrific crime.

“He understands if you hate
him. I understand if you hate us both,” she said, beginning to cry again.

“I don’t hate him…I don’t know how I feel. In a way, I feel guilty. He did it for me. He did it to protect me. I never asked him to,” I stated defensively, “but, I know that’s why he did it.”

“Sean tried to tell me about your father. It was a long time ago. I wish I’d listened and reported it.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I remained silent. She wished she
had reported my father. I wished a lot of things. Wishing wouldn’t change anything.

“Sean is so sorry, Alex. He…he wants to talk to you.”

“I don’t know…”

“It’s okay. I understand if it’s too soon. You might never want to talk to him, but if you do, it would mean the world to him.”

What would I say to Sean if I
did
talk to him? Should I apologize? Was I angry? Emotionless, I said the words I thought she wanted me to say. “We’ll stay in touch. I’ll call you soon. Tell Sean…to take care of himself.”

“You take care of yourself, too. Make sure you see an obstetrician as soon as possible, and let me know if you need anything.”

When I disconnected the call, I felt guilty for not saying more. But what else was there to say? I could have told her I forgave her son, but I didn’t. For me, there was nothing to forgive. I felt nothing in regards to my father’s death. Just fear of the future.

Sean and his mother were the only people who knew about the baby. I still hadn’t told my mother or Claire. It didn’t seem like the right time. Claire would be disappointed that I’d ever allowed myself to get into such a predicament. My mother would be filled with disgust that I carried Sean’s child. Both woul
d demand that I get an abortion, but I refused to do that. There was enough proverbial blood on my hands already.

Chapter 24- Sean

When he arises and around him looks
,

Wholly bewildered by the mighty anguish

(Canto XXIV, lines
115 & 116)

They say I killed Alex’s father. I thought it was a dream. It felt like one when I did it. Not a nightmare—a dream. Alex was free. Did she know that? Did she realize I did it all for her? Or, at least I think I did
it all for her…it was hard to remember what I did or why I did it.

Alex was free, but I wasn’t. I didn’t know how long I’d be in jail. Most of the other inmates said I’d be locked up forever. A few people said I might get off on an insanity plea because I was “one crazy motherfucker.” It sounded like a compliment when they said it. They didn’t shake their heads and laugh behind my back. I felt like I belonged in here
, like I’d finally found people who accepted me. Strange that I should feel more at home in jail than in high school. But my new friends warned me: prison would be different. The idea made me shudder. I knew what happened in prison. I’d seen some of the shit on TV.

My lawyer was a public defender, so in a way, he wasn’t really my lawyer at all.
My mom couldn’t afford a real lawyer, but that was okay. I’d put her through enough. I didn’t want to waste all her money. My mom called the lawyer who’d been working on my assault charge, but she couldn’t afford to pay him to defend me for my newest debacle. It was ironic; the assault charge that had once overshadowed every single aspect of my life was now irrelevant. Assault paled in comparison to murder, so that itty bitty charge didn’t even matter anymore. Wasn’t life strange?

I’d only seen my charity-case lawyer one time, but my mom told me she called him almost every day. He wasn’t very good at returning her calls, but his secretary assured her he was doing everything he could. Most likely, there was nothing he
could
do.

A psychiatrist came to see me. She worked for the state, she said. I answered a shitload of questions and told her my life story before she asked about the night of the murder. I tried to explain what happened, but the details were hidden in a fog.

She brushed a wisp of brown hair from her forehead and looked up from her notepad. I liked her eyes. They were the same color brown as my horse in Tales of Andrometis. I told her that, and she seemed taken aback. Hah! I made her lose her composure for just a moment. See? You could find the Achilles heel on anyone if you tried hard enough.

“
Do you understand what you did was wrong?”

“Which part?”

“Breaking into someone’s house…”

“I had a key.”

“It’s still considered trespassing. Do you understand that killing Mr. Elmwood was wrong?”

“You mean against the law? Yeah, I’m not an idiot. I know that.”

“Are you sorry for what you did?”

“Do you know what he did to Alex? If anyone deserved to die, he did.”

The interview went downhill after that. She was just like the other shrinks I’d seen over the years: judgmental, holier-than-thou, stupid. When I stopped answering her questions, she turned off her recorder and left. Good riddance.

I had to wait until after dinner to call my mom. Even on weekends when she wasn’t at work, I was only allowed to call her once a day because it was expensive. It cost her ten bucks every time I called. The first couple of days, I called her a lot. I almost cried when she refused some of
the calls. She was serious about only taking one call a day.

Mom told me not to call Alex. She said it was inappropriate. I tried, but the call wouldn’t go through to her house or cell
phone. One of my new friends told me they blocked prisoners from calling families of the victim. I guess the jail administrators didn’t understand that Mr. Elmwood wasn’t the victim—Alex was.

The days were long, but not as boring as school.
Some of the guys told me I could get my GED once I was sentenced and transferred to prison. Who cares about a GED when you’re locked up forever? I spent most days talking to my new friends, comparing criminal charges, and trying to make myself sound more badass than I was. There was a hierarchy here: rank. Just like in Tales of Andrometis. As a murderer, I held high rank.

But, at night, all my bad-ass
bravado washed away with my tears. I cried for my mom, whose heart I’d broken. She’d given me her whole life, and I’d left her with nothing. She raised me with the hope that I’d one day make something of myself, get married, and fill her house with grandchildren. One day, she hoped to brag to her friends about her intelligent, attentive son who was an asset to humanity. Now, I’d doomed her to a life of evasiveness and half-truths. When people asked her if she had a son, how would she answer?

I cried for Alex who I missed intensely, and I crie
d for the child I would never know. When I imagined some other man marrying her and raising my child as his own, jealousy burned in my gut, sending hot jolts of acid from my stomach to my throat. I couldn’t bear the thought of her loving someone else.

“
In some prisons, you can actually get married,” Ty’Reese said. He was cool. I sort of knew him from the outside. He went to Saint Edmunds High, but was a couple of years ahead of me. He was in for drugs, but he’d almost killed someone, so he was well-respected in jail.

“Is it true you can have conjugal visits?” I asked, although the idea of bedding Alex in prison wasn’t much of a turn-on. Still, it was better than nothing.

“Yeah, man.”

Kirk the killjoy chimed in with his dissenting opinion. He was
the negative one of the bunch, the first to offer discouragement if someone had a favorable court appearance and was always forthcoming with a horror story about someone he supposedly knew. But he didn’t know anything. He was just a big, dumb redneck.

“Do you really think your girl’s gonna sta
nd by you after you done killed her father?” Kirk asked.

I clenched my teeth to stop myself from crying. Kirk was right, of course. I’d considered that maybe Alex would misunderstand and would hate me for what I did, but I held onto my hope—until now.

“Kirk, man, shut the fuck up,” Ty’Reese said. “Shit. That girl prob’ly happy Sean killed that sick motherfucker. Sean, don’t you be listenin’ to Kirk. He crazy.”

That was one thing I liked about jail—I wasn’t the crazy fuck up. I was respected, maybe a little feared. When new guys came in and asked, “What
you in for?” I could reply, “Murder One.” When I listed all my charges—including the ones for the fight in Saint Ed’s Pizza—it added up to a pretty impressive score: felony assault, property damage, felony breaking and entering, first degree murder.

It gave me an odd sense of pride…at least until I fell asleep and the prison walls closed in on me and I knew my life was over.

Chapter
25- Alex

And notwithstanding that mine
eyes might be

Somewhat bewildered, and my mind dismayed…

(Canto XXV, lines 145 & 146)

I’d been out of school for two weeks with no intention of showing my face in
class ever again. Claire screamed and cursed at me when I told her I couldn’t bear to finish high school, but I didn’t back down. Everyone in the Saint Louis area had heard about the murder—it had been splashed all over the news. Saint Edmunds was small—everyone knew everyone. Everyone knew what Sean did and that I was his girlfriend.

When I told my mom I wouldn’t go back to school, she just shook her head. “It’s up to you, honey. You can always get a GED.”

The idea of a GED depressed me, but not as much as the idea of going back to school.

On the balmy second week of May, Mr. Chalmers called me, his tone irritable as always. “My condolences.”