We All Fall Down (9 page)

Arrested by the anguish in her mother’s voice, Jane found herself shamelessly eavesdropping.

“I don’t know what to do, I shouldn’t be saying this to you but I’ve got to talk to someone. I have this crazy thought, Karen, that something is holding you back from regaining consciousness. Because you’re afraid. Of something. Don’t be. Don’t be afraid. We all love you. We’ll protect you. That terrible vandalism won’t happen again. We’ve had a real good alarm system installed. We’ll take care of you …”

Silence now in the room. No response from Karen, of course. Peering in, she saw Karen, eyes closed, silent in the bed. The anguish—more like desperation—in her mother’s
voice caused Jane to draw back. She did not want to confront her mother at this moment. Her mother had been putting on such a show of bravery as she cheerfully went about her housework, her daily errands. All of it a sham. Pretending for the sake of the family.

“You’ve got to come back, Karen. Until you do, nothing will be right. We all live in the same house but we are separate. We aren’t a family anymore.”

Which was true, Jane admitted with a kind of horror. They were all so polite with each other.
Pass the salt, please. That’s a pretty blouse, Jane. Wonderful report card, Artie.
Not like the old days of family arguments about staying out late, mediocre report cards, who’s wearing whose sweater. Now they treated each other as if they were made of glass, would shatter if a cross word was uttered.

Jane did not finally enter the room, left her mother to carry on that sad one-sided conversation, and returned to the chapel, instead.

Buddy opened the letter which wasn’t really a letter at all, not tearing the envelope but slitting it open carefully with a kitchen knife. Doing it slowly, which allowed him time to ponder the possible contents. He knew what the
actual
contents would be—the weekly check his father sent him. Twenty-five dollars. Which was almost twice as much as his previous allowance when his father was still living at home. There was never anything else in the envelope and Buddy always pretended he wasn’t disappointed. Screw it, he would mutter, crumpling the envelope and tossing it away.
Screw it all, Buddy, and cash the check.

What he hoped for every week was a note from his father accompanying the check. He’d have been satisfied with a few words scrawled hastily on a scrap of paper. But the envelope always contained only the money. The
twenty-five dollars was terrific, of course. That’s what kept him supplied with booze. But—but what? He wasn’t sure what.

His father had made no promises the day he left the house. He’d been in a hurry, hastily packing his clothes, frowning, scratching himself as if the clothes he wore were too tight for his body. He kept saying:
Sorry. Really sorry to be doing this to you, Buddy.
Throwing shirts every which way into his suitcase, sloppy to the end.
Tell Addy how sorry I am.
Addy had refused to speak to him, wouldn’t open her bedroom door to him.
I’ll send you your allowance every week
—
sorry it has to be by mail.
Sorry, sorry, sorry.

“Can’t we get together sometime?” Buddy had asked.

“Sure, sure,” his father replied, concentrating on the packing. That didn’t sound at all convincing, sounded more like
no, no.
Watching his father struggling to close the bulging suitcase, Buddy realized that you could live all your life in the same house with a person and not really know him. His father had always been his Father. With a capital
F.
Did all the things a father was supposed to do. Went off to work and came home. Threw a baseball to Buddy in the backyard. Took him and Addy to the circus, to fireworks on the Fourth of July. Famous for naps, could drop off to sleep at the blink of an eye. Hated driving, let their mother drive on long trips while he dozed. My sleepytime guy, Buddy’s mother called him affectionately, tenderly.

No more tenderness these days. His mother abandoned and the twenty-five-dollar check in the mail. That’s what his father had become.

Twice he had called his father at the office. More
sorry’s. Too busy. Maybe next week. I’ll call you.
He didn’t call Buddy but the checks still came. The checks which bought the booze and the booze which made it easier not to have his father get in touch.

Now, he looked at another check, looked at the signature he had seen on report cards until recently. His mother had signed his report card last week. In a sudden fury, he thought: I should send this check back, show him that he can’t buy me off with money.

He found an envelope in his mother’s desk in the den, along with a ballpoint pen. Wrote his father’s name on the envelope, his address at the office. Tore a sheet of paper from the pad his mother kept on hand for making notes. Pondered what he should say. Decided he would not say anything. Let the returned check speak for him. He found a small book of stamps in the drawer, detached one and placed it on the envelope. Slipped the check, folded over once, inside. Licked the flap, sealed the envelope, sighed with relief.
It was better to do something than do nothing.
Some writer had once said that.

He checked his wallet—three lonely one-dollar bills. Buying liquor at his age was not only illegal but also expensive. Harry had introduced him to a homeless downtown wanderer called Crumbs, unshaven, bleary-eyed, pushing a grocery cart filled with rags and paper bags whose contents Buddy could only guess at. Despite his name and his slovenly appearance, Crumbs was a shrewd businessman. He charged a flat rate of five dollars a bottle for his services, which did not include the price of the booze itself. Even if Buddy ordered only a pint, which carried a price tag of less than four dollars, the service charge did not change. This often forced Buddy to order a quart bottle.

As a result, he had come to rely on his father’s extra twenty-five-dollar allowance. With the addition of the fifteen-dollar allowance from his mother, the total should have been more than sufficient. But wasn’t. He also had to pay for everyday expenses out of that sum, plus lunches at
school and the extra money spent when he was out with Harry and the stooges.

For the next two days, he carried the envelope with the check inside his jacket pocket. Approached several mailboxes, checked the pick-up times on the inside of the cover as he balanced the envelope in his hand. Finally, he did not mail the check. Why should his father get away without paying for his freedom? Why shouldn’t he pay, even a little bit, for what he had done? Twenty-five dollars was cheap enough. A bargain.

The Avenger was amazed to find out how easy it was to commit murder twice and get away with it. He learned something new each time. First, he had learned about the importance of motive—or lack of it—when he killed Vaughn Masterson. What he learned the second time was that you did not need a weapon, like a gun or a knife, to kill someone. Of course, you needed opportunity. And sometimes you had to wait for the opportunity. Or, as in the case of the second time, the opportunity presented itself when you weren’t even sure you wanted to commit murder. That was another lesson he learned: Be on your toes, be alert all the time, ready to take advantage of any opportunity that might come up.

The way it had happened with his grandfather.

He had not planned to kill his grandfather that Saturday afternoon. He had, in fact, been avoiding him, afraid to hear more questions about the gun. His grandfather visited The Avenger and his mother once or twice a week because he knew she was often lonesome. The Avenger’s father had left town a long time ago, without saying goodbye or leaving a note. His mother did not believe that he had abandoned them or met with foul play or had been
killed in an accident. She believed he had somehow lost his memory.

She pictured him—and so did The Avenger—roaming the world, trying to find his way home. His picture sat on the television set and his father’s face was burned into The Avenger’s mind. He searched every day for his father, studying the faces of all the men he met on the street. He hadn’t found him yet.

When his grandfather visited, he brought good stuff to eat and sometimes flowers for his mother. He called The Avenger’s mother “daughter,” although she was not his daughter. They sat and watched television, all the soap operas, and later they shut off the set and his grandfather would talk about the old days, his days on the beat or about when “Donnie,” The Avenger’s father, was a boy.

“Don’t see much of you these days, keed,” his grandfather said the last time he visited. He often called him “keed.”

“I’ve been busy,” The Avenger said, his face growing warm. “School, helping out Mom.” Which was true. The Avenger always helped out his mother. Did the daily chores without being told. Ran the errands. These days, when his grandfather visited, he made himself scarce, sometimes left the house before the old man arrived or got out of the place as soon as possible.

“You make me feel bad, keed,” his grandfather said, “running off all the time.” And for an instant he felt bad for the old man, realized that he looked
really
old these days, frail and skinny.

“Sorry, Gramps,” he said. And he
was
sorry. Sorry for the circumstances that made his grandfather an enemy, somebody to be suspicious of.

“He’s such a good boy,” his mother said, in her wispy voice, “He takes such good care of me …”

“I know, Ella, I know,” his grandfather said, his voice soft and gentle. But his eyes weren’t gentle. When The Avenger looked up at the old man’s eyes, they were shrewd and glittering. They studied him, bore down into him. The Avenger always looked away.

The next week when he answered the telephone, his grandfather’s voice greeted him: “Hi, keed, how’s tricks?”

What did he mean by
tricks!

“Fine, Gramps,” he said, keeping his voice bright, determined to be natural.

“Listen, this is an invitation to go out with your old Gramps. You’re so busy these days I figure I got to make a formal invitation. So—how about next Saturday afternoon?”

The Avenger swallowed hard, felt his Adam’s apple bouncing up and down. “Well …” His mind raced, looking for an excuse. Trying at the same time to gauge his grandfather’s voice, looking for secret things in the voice.

“I figure we can go to the movies. There’s a good cop movie coming up next week.” They both liked cop movies with gunfire and car chases and explosions. “Then we can grab some grub.” He always called the hamburgers at McDonald’s “grub.” “What say?”

What could he say? He had to say yes. He did not want to spend any time at all with Gramps but the movie theater was the best place of all if he had to do it.

As it turned out, they had a good time at the movies. Loaded up with popcorn and M&Ms and Cokes and enjoyed all the action on the screen, especially the long chase across streets and bridges between a car and a
man
, a policeman.

They were both too full of candy and junk to grab some grub at McDonald’s but instead walked leisurely along to his grandfather’s apartment. “For a good talk,”
his grandfather said, which made the day turn cloudy although the sun was warm on his cheeks.

His grandfather’s apartment was small and cramped. The Avenger found himself out of breath, as if the walls were closing in on him. The apartment was in a high-rise for the elderly. What they called a four-room living area, although it was actually three rooms, the dining room and kitchen combined in one room. The only thing The Avenger liked about the apartment was the balcony, with iron railings, five stories high, looking out over the town. You could see across the smaller buildings to the hills in the distance. Sometimes, his grandfather brought out his binoculars and The Avenger studied the windows of the other buildings or looked down at the people walking below.

“Want some Coke?” his grandfather asked.

The Avenger shook his head. “No thanks, Gramps.”

“Cookies? Piece of cake?”

“Still full, Gramps.”

What he wanted was to go home. His eyes ached a bit and his head hurt.

“Feeling all right?” his grandfather asked, eyes narrowed as he studied The Avenger.

“Ate too much,” The Avenger said. He was afraid he was going to be sick. He felt hot all over, not warm but hot.

“Let’s get some fresh air,” his grandfather said, heading for the small balcony. “We can talk better out there. We can sit and talk.”

But his grandfather did not sit. He told The Avenger to sit down in the black wrought-iron chair but he himself leaned against the railing, his back to the town, his eyes on The Avenger. He began to ask questions. About school. How were his marks? Was his spelling improving? What did he do after school besides the chores? Stuff like that.

The Avenger answered the questions willingly, talking fast, going into details, simply to hold off more questions. He had a feeling his grandfather was not really listening to the answers, his eyes kind of glazed now, as if he was seeing things far away or thinking of something else altogether.

Finally, the old man turned his back on The Avenger. Leaned against the balcony raffing, looked out over the city. “I’ve got to ask you something important, keed,” he said, his voice muffled a bit.

Important.
The word made The Avenger’s insides shrivel.

He knew the question: Did you kill Vaughn Masterson?

That’s why his grandfather could not face him. He was like the district attorney in the TV movies who turned away from the killer in the witness stand and faced the jury to ask his questions. Like the whole city out there was now the jury and he, The Avenger, was on the witness stand.

The Avenger had to say something. So he said: “What do you want to ask me, Gramps?” Keeping his voice bright as usual.

Then the moment arrived.

As if it had been planned that way.

“Hey, what’s that?” his grandfather asked, distracted, leaning forward over the railing, checking something down below.

The Avenger began to get up from his chair and suddenly everything was in slow motion, which was crazy because he was moving very fast, his arms and legs working perfectly, beautifully, as he leaped up but also slow, slow as possible, moving across the balcony, as if he were off somewhere watching himself running now, fast, hands raised in front of him, as his grandfather began to turn almost as if he had beard an alarm going off and was half turned when
The Avenger, no longer watching now but
doing it,
crashed into him. Crashed into him low, not slow motion either but fast, fast, and low, just below his behind, the thin hard bones there, and lifting at the same time, finding somehow the strength, the determination, the
means
to do it, and desperate, too, because he knew that he could not fail, it would be the end of everything if he failed. Without warning, his grandfather seemed to lift himself up, his hands flung out, and he was propelled upward as if he were about to fly, his long thin arms like the wings of an airplane or a wounded bird and he wailed, a terrible sound coming out of him, as he was caught and held for one moment in the air, arms flailing, grabbing nothing. Then he fell. Like a puppet whose strings were cut, like a tree branch taken by the wind. Down he went, all arms and legs thrashing the air.