We All Fall Down (12 page)

But her mother interrupted, still indignant, face flushed: “Why can’t they arrest him for breaking into this place? He was in here, wasn’t he? He admitted doing the damage, didn’t he?”

“There were no signs of forced entry,” her father said slowly, pacing the words, emphasizing each word separately, as if he were writing on a blackboard.

“What does
that
mean?” Jane’s mother asked.

While a shadow crossed Jane’s mind.

“It means,” her father said, still not looking at Jane, “that he didn’t have to break into this house. Didn’t have to break a window or break down a door.”

“Then how did he get in?”

Look at me, Jane wanted to shout, why won’t you look at me? But stood there, silent, in dread, a stranger in her own home.

“Because he simply walked in,” her father said, voice harsh and dry, as if his throat hurt. “He had a key to the house. He put the key in the lock, opened the door and walked in.”

“A key to this house,
our
house? In heaven’s name, how would he get a key?”

For the first time since he arrived home, Jane’s father looked at her. Looked directly into her eyes, his own eyes flashing with—what?—anger? More than anger. She groped for the word and, to her horror, found it. Accusation, That’s what she saw in his eyes.

“He said that Jane gave him the key.” His voice flat, the voice of a stranger.

Standing in the hallway of her home with her mother and father, while a lawn mower whirred away someplace in the neighborhood, Jane Jerome suddenly knew what the end of the world would be like.

Marty Sanders was waiting for Buddy when he stepped off the bus in front of Wickburg Regional the next morning. A dull ache in his head and his eyes stinging from the morning sun, Buddy grimaced as Marty’s foghorn voice greeted him:

“Hung over?” Fake concern in his eyes.

Buddy did not bother to answer. He saw Randy Pierce lurking near the school’s entrance, bland as usual, as if waiting for someone to draw an expression on his face.

Marty drew Buddy aside and spoke out of the corner of his mouth like a gangster in some cheap old movie. “Bad news, Buddy.”

The other students streamed by them, one guy jostling Buddy with his elbow. The bus emitted stenches of exhaust.

Trying to figure the categories of bad news, he came up with a name: Harry Flowers. The dull ache in his head intensified into a sharp pain that embraced his entire skull. The sun made him blink. He looked toward Randy, whose face was a sunspot.

“Harry was picked up yesterday by the cops,” Marty said. “Rang the bell at his house about four o’clock and hauled him off to the police station. Arrested him for vandalism—that house in Burnside we hit …”

Buddy moaned, a strange alien sound he barely recognized as his own as he watched the bus lumbering away.
We Are Sunk. The End.

“Don’t worry,” Marty said, confidential, face so close to Buddy’s that a pimple near his nose looked like a crater on the moon. “Harry won’t tell. He’s not a squealer.”

Tell, squeal.
Fifth-grade words.

“Everybody squeals,” Buddy said, but what he meant was:
I would squeal. I wouldn’t want to squeal but I’d do it. I would break down and admit everything.

“Look, Buddy,” Marty said, voice deeper than ever, if that was possible. “I’ve known Harry all my life. We were in preschool together. Harry never double-crosses his friends.”

But I am not his friend. I could never be his friend.

“Have you talked to him?” Buddy asked.

“Just a quick talk. He called last night, about eight when he got home. He said not to worry, he was taking the blame. He won’t be in school today—has to go back to the police station today. With his father. He said his father’s going to make restitution for the damage, doesn’t want to make waves, doesn’t want publicity. Which lets us off the hook. Harry said he’d call me tonight with the details.”

In the distance Randy nodded his head, as if he could hear what Marty was saying.

I could use a drink.
Even at eight-ten in the morning. Even though a drink this early would make him sick to his stomach.

“How did the police find out about him?” Buddy asked, barely aware that the first warning bell had
sounded, usually the loudest bell in the world that jolted most students into an instant run for the front door.

“Harry said a witness saw his car that night.”

“What witness?” Buddy asked. “And why did he wait so long? It’s been more than three weeks.” Three weeks plus five days—Buddy knew exactly when the trashing had occurred.

“I don’t know,” Marty said, leading Buddy toward the school’s entrance, where Randy greeted them, a sickly smile on his face now, the smile like a bandage covering a wound. “All I know is that Harry said not to worry. And he’s a man of his word.”

In the first place, he’s not a man. He’s a high school senior. And what do I know about his word?
Buddy looked over his shoulder, as if expecting to see a police cruiser streak toward the school, turning on the siren the instant the cops spotted them.

“If the witness saw Harry, he probably saw us,” Buddy said.

Randy finally spoke: “We don’t know if the witness is a
he
or a
she.
”

“Stop splitting hairs, for crissakes,” Marty said to Randy. “Who cares if the witness is a he or a she?” The kind of stupid argument Marty and Randy usually carried on. “The witness,
he
or she”—emphasizing the words for Randy’s benefit—“saw the car. Got the license plate number. The cops traced it to Harry’s house.” Still talking sarcastically to Randy, as if speaking to a little kid. “They didn’t think his father had done the damage. Middle-aged guys don’t ordinarily get their kicks trashing houses. So they arrested Harry.” Snorting with contempt as he shook his head.

The second warning bell sounded, clanging inside Buddy’s head. Two minutes remaining to get inside the
place and to their lockers. Then to their homerooms for attendance.

“Relax, Buddy,” Marty croaked, his voice more like a bullfrog’s now than a foghorn. “Harry won’t let us down.”

Famous last words, Buddy thought as they pushed their way into the school. His locker contained a hidden half pint of gin that he kept for emergencies. He wondered whether he had enough time to sneak a couple of gulps. He felt in his jacket pocket for Life Savers. Despite his throbbing head and queasy stomach, he needed the easing of tension and dread the gin would supply while waiting for the cops to come and take him off to jail.

That evening, he leaped with alarm when a knock came at his bedroom door. The cops, he thought. His mother, grim-faced, greeted him as he reluctantly opened the door. “Could I have a word with you, Buddy?” She knows, he thought, as his face grew warm, like shame made visible. “Addy’s in my bedroom, waiting …”

He followed her there and found Addy sitting on the dainty delicate chair in front of his mother’s dressing table. Addy shot him a look of curiosity, as if saying: I don’t know what this is all about, either.

Hands on hips, shoulders stiff, as if standing at attention, his mother drew a deep breath and said: “I’m thinking of going away for a few days….”

Buddy sagged against the wall, a surge of relief flowing through him, as if he’d had a fever that had suddenly stopped. Then wondered in a panic: Is she leaving us, too? He looked at Addy but found no answer in her eyes.

As if reading his mind, his mother said: “No, I’m not moving out or anything like that. And I’m not taking a vacation, either. I’m thinking of going on a retreat….”

The word echoed vaguely in Buddy’s mind, something to do with religion and prayer. But he asked the question
anyway: “What’s a retreat?” And immediately felt stupid as usual when involved in a conversation with his mother and Addy.

“It’s a place to go for meditation and prayer,” Addy explained but not in a wise guy voice, trying to be helpful.

“Exactly,” his mother said. “It’s a five-day retreat, a long weekend, Friday through Tuesday at a kind of monastery south of Worcester.” She sank down on the bed. “I’ve got to get myself together. I mean, I’ve only been going through the motions, at work, here at home with the two of you. During the retreat, I’ll have a chance to think. To meditate, pray. There’s a counselor. I’ll be going with a group of women from all walks of life.”

“That’s just great, Mom,” Addy said heartily.

And Buddy echoed the word: “Great.” Trying to inject it with enthusiasm.

“We’ll get along fine,” Addy said. “We’ll load up on frozen stuff, order Chinese goop, and I can make my specialties …”

“Meat loaf and shake-and-bake chicken,” Buddy said, chiding her pleasantly, wanting to be a part of her cheerfulness and his mother’s decision. At the same time, he looked searchingly at his mother, trying to see her not as his mother but as a woman. A troubled, unhappy woman. Saw the small network of lines at the corners of her eyes, the thin, downturned lips. Had her lips always been so thin? Had she always looked this way? Sadness made him take his eyes away from her. Since his father’s departure, his mother had been only a presence in the house, as insubstantial as a shadow. He had awakened each day thinking, today somehow we’ll talk, I’ll ask her how she’s doing, how she’s
really
doing, we’ll get past all that polite table talk and get things out in the open. But as each day wore on, and the booze took hold, his morning vow dissolved.

His mother remained preoccupied, distant at the table although she talked—how she talked—but mechanical talk, about work, inquiring about school, but not absorbing the answers, distracted.

Look, kids,” she said now. “Maybe I haven’t been the best wife and mother and I’ve also been a lousy Catholic. Your father did his best for you. He went along with all the demands of the Church when we married. Agreed that our children would be brought up Catholic, although I decided at one point that you both should make your decisions about religion and what to be.”

When did that happen? Buddy wondered. All he knew was that at some point in his life, his mother had stopped going to mass and they had stopped too. And she did not insist on those boring religion classes anymore. Was that one of Addy’s sins of omission?

“I have to do something,” she continued, sitting straight on the bed, her hands stroking the spread. “And I have to start somewhere, The other day I realized it was either a psychiatrist or a retreat. Maybe it’ll be both in the end.” She closed her eyes. “All I want is a little peace.” Tears oozed past her closed eyelids.

“Oh, Mom,” Addy cried, and flung herself at her mother, kneeling on the floor, her arms around her mother’s waist. Buddy envied them, together like that. Envied his mother, who might find that peace she wanted on retreat. Envied Addy, who could embrace her mother passionately, live passionately, writing plays, doing things. While he waited for the cops to show up, which would bring disgrace to them all.

But the cops never came.

Three days later, just before supper, Harry called, telling Buddy—not asking but
telling
him—that he would pick him up at eight o'clock.

“Time to have a talk,” Harry said, voice dry and crisp with no sign of an accent.

Buddy’s hand stayed on the phone for a long time after he hung up.

The Avenger was angry, almost in tears—not childish tears but tears of anger and frustration—as he sat on the bus on the way home from the Mall. He knew that he would not go to the Mall anymore in his search for the trashers. He was tired of looking, looking, but never seeing them. A few minutes ago, a security guard had approached him as he stood across from the escalators trying not to act suspicious, acting as if he were waiting for his mother to show up. The guard was old with red blemishes like small flowers on his cheeks, but his eyes were dark and watchful. He did not speak to The Avenger but stood close to him. Too close. When The Avenger moved on, the guard moved with him. The Avenger did not know whether this was a coincidence or whether the guard did not want him hanging around the Mall. The Avenger finally slipped through the revolving doors with the knowledge that he would not return to the Mall anymore. Three weeks of looking had failed to turn up any of the trashers.

As the bus lumbered down Main Street, The Avenger pondered his next move. Maybe he should start visiting the high schools, although he knew that this was almost impossible to undertake. A lot of schools in the area. Too many. Why hadn’t the trashers shown up at the Mall the way hundreds of other guys did? He beat his fist against the window until his knuckles hurt and an old woman in the seat in front of him turned and frowned at him. She wore thick glasses that magnified her eyes. He looked bleakly out of the window at the stores passing by. Felt helpless, unable to proceed with his plans for revenge. Anger stirred
inside him, his heel drummed the floor, and the old woman shuffled her shoulders and half glanced back at him again. He realized he had been hitting the back of her seat with his knee.

Making an effort to keep his knee from moving, his foot from tapping the floor, his knuckles from hitting the window, he put on his thinking cap. The cap was tight on his head, like a real cap, too small for his skull. He closed his eyes, carried along by the bumping and thumping of the bus. He dreaded to wonder what Jane would think if she knew he had failed her, had foiled to find the trashers.

Sadness replaced his anger. Sadness, because he could not spy on the Jeromes anymore even though he did not consider himself a spy. He had been an observer. By observing them, he had become part of the family. But with the shrubbery all gone now and the branches of the old oak trees trimmed back, the house looked naked, exposed to the world. No more hiding places for him to look at the family.

In his months of observation, he had come to love them. That’s why he had done the things he had done. Because of that love.
You always hurt the one you love.
That was a song his mother always sang. An old song. Her theme song, sort of. When she lost her patience and punished him, those words echoed in his mind. This is for your own good, she would say. And he would think: You always hurt the one you love. So when he began to love the Jeromes, he knew that he had to hurt them, to show them his love. Even though it made him feel bad to do things. Things like yanking Mrs. Jerome’s tomato plants out of the garden, which hurt not only her but
him
as well, because he loved to see the brave and pretty plants sunning themselves. Plus putting the dead squirrel in the mailbox. The Avenger had not killed the squirrel—he had found it by
the side of the road, hit by a car, no doubt. He would never kill a helpless animal, especially a small one.