The Truth (11 page)

Now

“Chloroform,” Derek says, removing his hands from his face. He'd kept them there the whole time I was talking. The garden shears are still on his lap.

“What?”

“That's how I knocked you out. I put chloroform on the rag. Don't worry. There aren't any long-term effects.”

I don't say anything. Now that I'm finished, I feel a kind of relief. He has to see now that doing this isn't going to accomplish anything.

I wait, wondering,
Are we finished now? Did he get what he wanted from me? Is he going to release me?

All at once, he lurches forward with the garden shears and takes hold of a finger. Only, this time, it's the index finger on my right hand.

“If I asked you now whether or not you saw a gun in Caleb's hand, would you be able to tell me?” Derek asks, his rough voice low, hushed.

I look at him. “No.”

“Are you at least sorry my brother's dead?”

“Yes! Oh God, yes!”

His voice continues in a soft whisper. “I thought talking to you…I might understand—even accept—what happened. But I can't. Not yet…”

It looks like he might start coughing again, but if he was he manages to stifle it.

“There's something,” he says, “I don't know…something you're not telling me.”

I've come this close. I can feel my nerves tingling, but I keep my voice steady as I say, “I've told you everything—”

“I'm going to ask you another question,” Derek growls, “and I want you to think before you answer.” Another cough, but he cuts if off, his breath hot and sour against my face. “Why did you take that gun?”

“I don't know. I wish—”

The shears flinch, like a living thing. “I
told
you to think.”

“O-okay. Give me a minute.”

I think back to that night. Waking up, thinking I'd heard something. Checking on Devon. Checking my mom's room too, seeing she wasn't home yet. I remember straining to hear more, some sign that someone might be downstairs but hearing nothing. If I called the police, and no one was there, I'd look stupid. I decided, finally, I should check. Just to be sure.

Then I remembered the gun Mom keeps in the side table next to her bed.

“Why did you take the gun?”

Unlocking the drawer, taking the gun out, feeling the weight of it in my hand. Thinking I should check to see if it was loaded, but not sure if I knew how. Though Mom had told me she always kept it loaded.

I remember that the sight of it was ugly. And I wondered if the guy who'd killed my father had done it with a gun like this.

And then just as it had that night, the dream comes back again, only this time I'm awake, facing Derek, but at the same time I'm reliving the dream, as if it's real, oh God, it feels so real…

“Shoot him! Shoot him!” I'm screaming at Dad.

“Please, please don't. Don't make me remember…”

“What?”

But Dad's moving toward the girl instead, and though I wasn't there when it happened, I am this time, so I lunge for Dad's gun on the floor because if I can get to it before the guy fires, maybe I can save him. Everything's in slow motion. The guy's about to shoot…

“Chris?”

…and my fingers encircle the gun on the ground, lift it, point it at the guy, who's now pulling the trigger…

“Chris.” The blades tighten.

“Dad put the gun down. Why did he do that?” My voice sounds harsh, my throat hurts. Fresh tears are finding their way down my face. “I didn't mean to…”

…and I pull the trigger before he does, the gun going off, but now the guy is gone and in his place is Devon, and the bullet I've just fired is heading toward him…

“No!”

…but my father is moving, jumping in front of Devon, and the bullet that would have hit my brother, the bullet I shot, hits my dad, and he goes down, blood spurting.

“Chris, if you don't tell me—”

“I didn't mean to…”

“To what? Shoot my brother?”

“No. Shoot my dad.”

“What? You didn't—”

“In my dream. He thinks I'm trying to kill Devon. I guess because of what I said to him. But I wasn't. He jumps, and I hit him. Over and over again. Every time. I keep telling myself, if the dream can change, if he lives, then maybe it means he's forgiven me. For what I said to him…”

“You're not making sense. If you're trying to pull something…”

“I can't change anything,” I say slowly, trying to make him understand. “That's what the dream means. He's dead. And I can't take it back. And I can't take back what I said, what I did. But I can protect Devon. Because it's what Dad would want. Protecting Devon, taking care of him, is more important.”

I actually start coughing myself. When I'm finished, Derek says, “What can't you take back?”

When I don't respond, he says, “What do you mean by ‘more important'?”

“It was going to be harder on Devon since he was only seven; that's what my mother said.”

He says nothing.

“I had to take care of him. I have to
keep
taking care of him. It's what Dad would want.”

“Are you saying you protect Devon because he was more important to your dad than you were?”

“Goddamn you, you're going to make me say it?” I yell at Derek. “Yes! Of course, Devon was more important to Dad than me! Maybe he loved me, but not the way he loved Devon.”

My voice chokes, making me stop. Tears have broken loose, running down my cheeks. I take a breath and struggle to continue.
You wanted the truth, Derek Brannick? Okay, you son of a bitch, here it is!
“Devon was the kid Dad always wanted. He's happy, well liked, gets good grades. He's an athlete. He was the son who loved baseball as much as him. Not me. Dad would try to get me interested, but I wasn't, not really. He would never say it, but I could see it in his eyes—how disappointed he was in me. But Devon came along, and they were always playing baseball together, talking about it. At first, Devon kept striking out or hitting weak ground balls. But that was okay with Dad. He'd just say, ‘That's all right; he'll get it.' And he did. He figured it out. But not until after Dad died…”

I stop for a moment, catching my breath. The tears keep coming, and I've stopped fighting them. “I always told myself it didn't matter, that it was all right. And then…I couldn't help myself. That night, I just blurted it out. I don't know why. I didn't mean to. It just came out. I could tell it hurt him. But he had to go to work—he had a double shift—and I told myself I'd say I was sorry the next time I saw him…and then I couldn't because…because he was killed the next day. And I will
never
be able to tell him. So I thought the only…the only way I could make it up to him was to take care of Devon. To always be there for him.”

I take a ragged breath, and Derek cuts in, saying, “You're talking about the last time you talked to your father?”

I look at him, hesitate. Then nod.

In a surprisingly gentle voice, he says, “So tell me, what happened on that walk?”

I've told him this much. I might as well tell him the rest.

Then

It's late summer; school is starting in a week. Dad is talking about the Phillies. “Things didn't work out this year,” he says, “but if they could just make the right move or two this off-season, they could be right back in the hunt, I'm telling you. Don't you think, Chris?”

“It'd be nice,” I offer. He glances at me, his expression suggesting he knows I'm not really into talking about this, the way I'm not ever into talking about baseball, no matter how many box scores he read to me as a baby. But tonight I have some good news to tell him, something I'm really excited about.

“Dad, the choir director at school called me today. She wants me to try out to be one of the soloists for this year. Remember I had that real short thing I sang in the concert last year?” Actually, Dad missed it because of another double shift. “She said she thought I had a beautiful voice. I should try out. It'd be a real honor if I got picked for that. If I get it and then sing well enough this year, I might even be able to try out for regional choir. The ones who get that are considered the best middle school singers in our part of the state.”

“That's nice,” he says after a minute. “I'm sure you'll… When are the tryouts?”

“Right after school the second day.”

Dad pauses before responding. “I think…yeah, I think Devon will have tryouts for the new fall baseball league that day, to see what team he's gonna be on.” He looks at me. “Your mom and I don't have to be at your tryouts, do we?”

“I…I don't know… I don't think so.”

“That's good,” he says. “Hopefully, I can switch shifts with somebody that day, so I can take Devon to his tryout.”

“I'll need a ride home after—”

“I'm glad they're starting that fall league,” Dad continues, not hearing me now, “and Devon's going to get a chance to play baseball some more.”

Has he ever heard me? Maybe he stopped after it became obvious baseball was never going to be my thing. Certainly he stopped after it became clear Devon could be molded into the perfect son after Dad failed with the first one. “You wait and see,” he's saying. “Your brother's hitting is gonna get a lot better. His bat's slow right now because he's so big for his age, and he's still getting used to his own body. But one day, maybe in fall ball, maybe next summer, the light's gonna go on, and then, watch out. When he starts getting hits, they're gonna be monsters.”

We're almost to the police station when he looks at me and says, “We'll all three want to make sure we get to Devon's games, even if it's just a fall league. It'll help him with his confidence to see us cheering for him. You especially, being his big brother.”

We stop at the main entrance to the station. “I'll just get one of the guys getting off shift to take you home,” he says, reaching for the door.

I want to try telling him one more time: regional choir! It would be a really big thing. It'd be important. It would make
me
important!

Instead, I hear myself say, “I can walk home.”

“No,” he says, “Come on in with me. I'll ask—”

“Shit, Dad, I'm thirteen years old. I can walk home by myself.”

Where did that come from? I never curse in front of my dad.

He looks at me in disbelief as he says, “Chris, you know better than to talk like that.”

What I should do is apologize. What comes out instead is, “I may not be able to hit home runs, but I can certainly walk six goddamn blocks by myself!”

Now Dad is staring openmouthed at me, probably wondering where this strange alien who has taken over his oldest son's body has come from. “I don't know what is going on with you, but we'll talk after I come home tomorrow, I promise you that. Now come in here with me and I'll get someone to take you home.”

I need to take back what I said, and I try to get control of myself. But I hear myself stumbling over my words. “I…I'm sorry, Dad. I don't know what… Look, don't worry about the solo tryouts. I can get a ride… I'm not even sure I'm going. It's not that important…”

“Well, apology accepted,” Dad says. “There's never an excuse for cursing at your father. But, Chris, I didn't mean you shouldn't…”

I want him to continue, to hear what more he was going to say, but now he's looking at his watch and telling me, “I don't want to be late; we'll talk about this when I get home. We'll talk to Devon too, double-check when his tryouts are—”

“Screw Devon!” I shout, like a bomb just went off inside me that I couldn't disarm. “And screw
you
!” And with that, I start walking home. I keep expecting him to come after me to at least make me apologize for defiling the great Devon's name and insist I wait for one of his cop buddies to drive me home.

But he doesn't. I just keep walking, and it isn't until I'm inside our house that I can think back to the look on his face just before I turned away from him, a look that says maybe I've done something irreparable. And I start counting the hours until he is home from work and I can apologize for what I've said and make things right again.

Now

A long silence follows. I feel exhausted, wasted. My eyes are closed, so I don't see the expression on Derek's face, though I feel the shears in place around my index finger.

Finally, I hear him say in that uniquely soft, rough voice of his, “Why did you quit choir again?”

Surprised, I open my eyes. “After what happened, I needed to be there for Devon. And choir wasn't a big deal.”

“Stop telling yourself that,” he says, cutting me off. “It was a big deal.” He leans in. “The truth, remember?”

After a moment, my head down, I whisper, “Yes. It was.”

“You should have tried out,” Derek says. “You let your father take that away from you.”

Fresh tears have formed in my eyes. I should say something, but I can't.

“And that's the last you saw of him?” Derek asks. “That was the last conversation you had with him?”

I nod, still looking down, feeling dull and lifeless. “I wanted to apologize, to tell him I don't know why I said that to him, that I didn't mean it.”

“But instead he screwed up your chance to apologize by getting himself killed.”

I hesitate, then nod again.

“I'd say he deserved you getting angry at him.”

“No, he didn't! I loved him. And he did love me.”

“As long as Devon came first, right?”

“I shouldn't have said it. Now I can never apologize.”

“And even worse, he never got the chance to apologize to you. Did you ever think of that? Who knows? If he had come home the next day, he might have told you
he
was sorry. In my opinion, he should have. But I guess you'll never know.”

After a long moment, Derek says, “Well, well, the truth has come out.” He lifts up the garden shears. “No matter how much I threatened you with these, you were holding that back.” He leans in. “Makes me wonder what else you might have held back.”

“N…nothing,” I whisper.

I know I should be fighting back more, telling him, yes, this one thing, yes, that was all, it's all out now, I'm sorry. But it feels like I've been in this chair for so long, I'm not sure what's real and what's not. And maybe I don't care anymore. If he said he was going to cut off two fingers for lying to him, I'd raise up my hand—if I could—so he could get to them easier and get it over with.

But the shears remain where they are, and he studies me.

And then when I think it's finally over, all at once he leans forward and says, “Let's try it again, shall we?”

I look at him.

“My brother was robbing you, right?”

“I…yeah, I guess.” I'm so exhausted.

“You
guess
?”

The sudden anger in his voice makes me sit up. “He was in the kitchen,” I tell him. “The cabinets were open.”

“He was probably looking for food. He'd been living on the street. He was hungry.”

“The police said there were other break-ins in the neighborhood.”

“And I bet if you checked out what was actually taken, you'd find out it was mostly food. Caleb was trying to survive.”

He pauses, lost in thought.

I try to swallow; it hurts.

“Let me get you some more water,” Derek says, getting out of the chair. Moving behind me, out of sight. Like before, I hear the squeak of a faucet turning on, water running, then the faucet turning off.

He comes back into view, cup in hand. “Tilt your head back.” All of the water makes it into my mouth. I swallow, grateful.

Again, he crumples the cup and tosses it on the floor.

“Better?”

“Yes,” I answer. “Thank you.”

He sits back down, looks at me. “I'm supposed to believe that you weren't sure whether or not my brother was holding a gun.”

“It's true. It was dark. It looked like… I reacted.”

“You and I both know you saying that means nothing now. I don't know if I can believe you.”

Abruptly, Derek gets up and starts pacing, waving around the shears. “It was probably a loaf of bread. Or a can of soup. But you pulled the trigger.”

“It was a gun,” I say.

“Why? Because the cops told you?”

Fiercely, I nod my head.

“There's no way Caleb would've had a gun. No way. He was getting food, that's all. Maybe a little cash if he'd found some. He was living on the street, for Chrissake. No way did he have a gun.”

“He did,” I hear myself say.

“I know you need to tell yourself that to feel better about what you did. But it doesn't make it true.”

I know what he's getting at, but I don't want to admit it. “You're wrong. The police, they—”

“They
planted
it!” Derek shouts.

And there it is. Out in the open. What I didn't want to admit. What's been nagging at me ever since Detective Fyfe spoke to me in the police station.

“What, you think the police never do stuff like that?” Derek seethes. “They come to your house and find a scared teenage kid, the son of a cop who died in the line of duty, who'd just killed an intruder for doing what? Pointing a can of soup at him? No way were they going to let that stand. Of course they planted the gun. It was easy. Everyone goes home happy. The son of a hero gets to be a hero—protecting his brother, his family. Just like his father would have done. Makes for a great news story. And so what if the victim was some homeless thirteen-year-old kid breaking in just 'cause he needed to eat.”

Then, in a softer voice, Derek says, “Of course they planted the gun.”

He turns his back to me.

“You don't know that!” I hear myself blurting out. Knowing I shouldn't, that I might be, yet again, putting myself in more danger by doing so. But I can't help myself. “You're just telling yourself the police planted it because you don't want to admit that your brother had turned into a criminal while you were in prison. Oh, excuse me, ‘juvenile detention.' You're just trying to ease your own guilt. You're mad at me because I
protected
my brother. And you
didn't
protect yours.”

I wait for him to do something. Anything. He barely moves. After a while, maybe I hear something. Could he be crying?

My arms, back, and legs ache from not being able to move. I have to go to the bathroom. I can hear my own harsh breathing. I wait for him to turn on me, the garden shears waiting to strike!

But still he doesn't move.

After more time passes, I'm not looking at him anymore. I'm seeing Caleb Brannick, his back to me, only dim light coming in through the window from a streetlight outside; he suddenly turns around at the sound of Devon's voice, and seeing his hand, his right hand, coming toward me, I strain to see what's in it. I work to slow it down, freeze-frame it, and as it comes into focus, I begin to see…

All at once, Derek moves, wiping his eyes as he turns to face me. The shears are still in his hand, though they hang by his side. He looks defeated. Worse than when he first appeared in this room with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He sits in the chair. Leans forward again. I watch the shears, but they do not come up.

“I want you to understand this is nothing personal,” he says. “It's not about revenge. It's about balancing things out. Making things right.”

What's that supposed to mean?

“We're all victims here,” Derek says. “My brother. You. Me. There has to be a way…” He hesitates again. Another long silence.

What more does he want from me? What more?

All at once, he scrapes the chair forward so that our faces are now only inches apart. “I forgive you,” he says. “I understand what happened and why you did what you did…” He falters, looks away for a moment. “I forgive you. But that doesn't mean no one pays.” He pulls back again. “I need to check on something. And I need a little time to think.”

Abruptly, he brings the shears up, and I pull back. But he uses them to cut through the duct tape wrapped around my chest. Then he cuts and pulls the tape from around my legs. Before starting on my wrists, he looks at me.

“There's a cell phone for you by the door. Do not leave this room until I call you. I'm not going to be far, so if you try to leave before you hear from me, I'll know. And you won't like the consequences, believe me.” He pauses. “Do not call
anybody
. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say.

He holds the shears poised above my wrists. “Don't try anything.” Then, quickly, he snips at the duct tape, freeing my hands. Then he pulls back. I rub each wrist, sore from the pull of the tape. But, otherwise, I don't move.

“Remember, don't leave until you hear from me.” He stares at me another few seconds, then nods and moves.

I don't look back to watch him leave. When I hear the sound of the door closing, I let out a long breath. After that, I finally stand.

My knees are stiff, and I wobble and sit back down. My hands are shaking, and I drop my head, taking in more deep breaths. After a few minutes pass, I get back up again and, this time, manage to stay on my feet.

Turning, I can see the whole room now. Hard, concrete floor. Rough walls. It's a laundry room. A utility sink sits in the far corner. A few paper cups are stacked next to the faucet. On the wall next to the door, a washer and dryer sit next to each other. On top of the washer is the cell phone Derek was talking about.

I see my jacket crumpled on the floor; I grab it, I slip it on, then cross to the door. Hesitate before turning the doorknob a little. It's unlocked. Every bone in my body is telling me to get out of here.

I'm not going to be far, so if you try to leave before you hear from me, I'll know. And you won't like the consequences, believe me.

They could just be words to try and keep me here. Or he could be right outside, checking on whatever it is he needs to check.
Using the time to think
, he said. Think about what? How stupid I am sitting here, afraid, while he's running off somewhere?

I cross to the washer and pick up the phone. It's on. The clock's not set, so I still don't know what time it is.

For all I know, he's not going to call. His threat was just a ruse to get me to stay here. But why leave the cell phone unless he really was going to call? Otherwise, I could use it to get help.

I should call the police. But I don't know where I am, and tracing a cell phone call could take longer than I can keep the phone open. What happens if he calls me right in the middle of it?

You won't like the consequences, believe me.

I lay the phone back down. Stare at it.
Ring, damn it! Finish doing whatever nut-job thing you're doing and call me. I'm sorry your brother's dead, but he shouldn't have come into my house with a gun. And don't tell me you know for sure he didn't have one.

The phone just sits there.

You won't like the consequences, believe me.

Silence. Nothing.

How long have I been here? How long was I unconscious before I woke up? Could it be nighttime? Or even the next day? Are the police looking for me?

I figure I only have time for one call. I should call Mom. Even though I couldn't tell her any more than I could tell the police, I could reassure her at least that I'm alive. Do I call her cell or the home phone?

But what if I wasn't out that long? Could it be earlier than I think? Is it possible Devon's game could still be going on, with Mom watching, wondering where I am but not worried about me yet? She usually leaves her cell in the car at Devon's games, so what if she doesn't have it with her in the bleachers and I've wasted my one chance?

And I can't help thinking about Rita opening the door when he grabbed me and wondering if Derek hurt her. I need to know she's okay. If I call her, find out she's fine, I can get her to call Mom. Then get right off. I'll be quick.

But what if she's not okay?

Damn it, make a decision!

The cell looks pretty straightforward, easy to dial. I dial her number. Wait. One ring. Two. Three. Come on,
answer
!

Four. It stops. A female voice. “Hello?” Not Rita's.

“May I speak to Rita?”

“This is her mother. Who am I…speaking to?” Something in her voice.

“Uh…Matt.”
Stupid. Why did I say that?
She'd recognize his voice, wouldn't she?

“Oh, hi, Matt.” She's obviously distracted. “She's…” Hesitation. “I'm sorry. She's…had an accident.”

Oh my God!
“What happened?” I ask. “Is she… Is she going to be all right?” This is already taking too long.

“Wait, you're not… Who is this?”

I hear a beep. The sound of someone calling in.

I panic and hang up on Rita's mother. Switch to the other call. I've blown my only chance. But did I switch fast enough that he didn't notice?

“I'm here,” I say in a low voice.

There's a long pause. Does he know I was on the other call? Is that why he's not saying anything?

So what if he does know? What's he going to do?

You won't like the consequences, believe me.

“So have you finished
thinking
?” I ask, cutting into the silence. Now that he's not here with his shears, I feel stronger. If he suddenly came back into this room right now, he wouldn't be facing the same scared teenager.

He doesn't respond right away. Maybe I pushed him too much. So what? I should hang up on him, just open that door, and step outside.

“It's good that you're angry,” I hear him say. “You're going to need it, I think.” A deep breath. “There's something you have to do. Go to Detective Bob Fyfe. Get him to admit that the gun was planted. Record it for me, so I can hear him saying it. You do that, and we're finished.”