Over the End Line (22 page)

"You're sure?"

"He just won the soccer state championship."

"Yes, I heard that." The officer gave his notepad a glance. "Maybe there was something else."

"Something else?" I repeated.

"Could've been anything," the officer said. "And I'm just throwing out these words to see if they jog your memory. Depressed ... angry ... guilty..."

"You think Kyle killed himself," I said.

"I haven't concluded anything," the officer said.

"But you're speculating."

"I'm investigating."

That was bullshit. He had something in mind. I sat back. I must've been smirking.

"This isn't funny, is it?" the officer said, calmly. His demeanor never wavered.

I shook my head. "Nope, it's not funny at all. What
is
humorous—even at this tragic moment—is the idea that Kyle would've
jumped
from Redemption Bridge. I've known Kyle a long time. I've competed with him, and against him. Everything about Kyle was winning, being the best, having people think of him as perfect. In a million years, he wouldn't have jumped."

"How do you
know
?" the officer said.

"It wasn't in his nature."

The officer looked at my mom. She turned to me.

"Maybe he was just screwing around," I said.

What do you mean?" the officer said.

"Maybe he climbed the railing and slipped."

"At dawn on a Monday morning?"

"Could've been a dare," I said.

"A dare?"

I shrugged.

"We'll consider every possibility," the officer said.

"I'm kind of tired of the questions," I said. "I'm not even sure what the point is. Kyle's gone. Nothing's gonna bring him back."

The officer put his notepad away. He thanked my mom and me for our time. My mom held a shaky hand on my shoulder. After the officer left, I returned to the quiet darkness of my bedroom.

I'd never been to a funeral before.

The St. Rose parking lot was nearly full. My mom pulled our car into one of the last open spaces. I got out and opened an umbrella, then moved around to the driver's side and held it up for her.

All morning, my mind had played tricks on me. I'd somehow convinced myself that all these people were in on an elaborately cruel prank—wearing dark suits and black dresses, crying and wiping their eyes on cue—and that we would all have a big laugh when someone finally said, "All right, we've busted Jonny's chops enough." Then Kyle would come out from behind a door, slap me on the back and tell me he couldn't believe I'd fall for something like this.

But as my mom and I walked with other mourners along the church driveway toward the west entrance, it became entirely clear that moment would never come. Kyle's death was real. People's tears were real. It wasn't a joke at all.

I heard my mom's voice. "You okay?"

"Sure," I said, more reflexively than meaning it.

Ahead, hundreds of people, under a canopy of umbrellas, slowly passed through the entrance. I saw teachers from the high school and junior high, the principal and vice principal, Pennyweather, coaches from other sports, school staff. Those in the crowd standing among those on the middle and lower rungs of the ladder. Most of the junior class and a few sophomores, too.

Even in death, Kyle was an event.

At the doors, our teammates were lined up, shoulder to shoulder. Solomon was weeping. So were Maynard and Trevor. Brad had his face buried in Dennis's shoulder. Richie held out his arms. He and Gallo hugged. Then Richie went on to the next guy. Even Maako was there, dressed in black, standing alone. I wanted to feel comfort from my teammates. There wasn't anything that could be said, but it'd be enough to catch a guy's eye, strain a smile, then look away.

My mom and I stepped up the church stairs.

I got a nod.

A hand on my shoulder.

Then another.

"Sorry, Jonny," someone said softly.

I closed the umbrella. People moved aside, giving us a narrow passage into the nave. I looked up. The colored panes of glass at the top of the vaulted ceiling and along the walls seemed to glow. My mom and I walked down the center aisle, taking our seats in one of the front pews. I folded my hands and pressed them against my forehead, hearing muffled sobs echo in the vast chamber. My mom put a hand on my arm.

I felt as if people from school were watching me, looking to see when I cried and how often, if I cried long enough and loud enough. If I was in as much pain as I should've been.

A mahogany casket was presented before the altar. It had precise lines running end to end and brass handles spotless enough to cast a reflection—ridiculously grand for a box that was just going to rot in the ground. Why'd I notice? Because, as I sat before Kyle, with people expecting me to pour out tears, I couldn't help but notice the smallest of details as if I were a pious judge in a "best casket" contest. I didn't cry—I don't know why. So I squeezed my eyes closed until they ached.

A priest, tall and gaunt, stepped up to the pulpit.

"We are all a community," he said, his voice echoing. "A community of friends and family, of students and teachers, of coaches and teammates ... It is sad and tragic when a community loses any of its members. It is especially tragic when a community loses a member so young and vibrant ... But with the love of friends and family comes hope ... And, for that, we have gathered here today to pray before the Lord..."

***

Afterward, my mom and I joined the long procession of black limousines and cars to Gate of Heaven Cemetery in East Hanover. It was still drizzling lightly, and the skies were charcoal gray. A tent was set up for the burial, but it was much too small to shelter all the mourners.

We sat behind Stephanie and Mr. and Mrs. Saint-Claire. Stephanie was dressed in black, but only slightly more tastefully than for school. Her eyes looked hollow, though I couldn't tell if that was from tears or makeup. I didn't see Trinity. It only vaguely surprised me that she wasn't there.

I stared at the casket, wondering how Kyle might've looked. Was he wearing a suit, or his varsity jacket? Or maybe Mr. Saint-Claire insisted he be dressed in his home whites. I didn't mean to think such macabre, inane thoughts. The truth was I was too numb to feel much of anything. I just hoped that some kind of emotion would seep back inside me as today passed into tomorrow, and as tomorrow passed into the day after that.

At the end of the ceremony, the casket was lowered into the ground.

I said goodbye to Kyle.

All week, heavy rain fell on Short Hills.

It seemed only appropriate.

I didn't go to school. There wasn't any point in classes, or homework, or dealing with people. My mom understood. I knew she was worried about me. She'd come up to my room every few hours like clockwork. I had the feeling she feared finding me hanging from the ceiling. I figured that was why she put a padlock on the attic door.

Our conversations were always the same.

"Hungry?"

"No."

"Thirsty?"

"No."

"If you want to talk..."

That didn't require a response.

I stayed in my bedroom, mostly. Sleeping a lot. On the floor. In bed. Half in the closet, half out. Sometimes I'd stare at the Saint-Claires' house. I knew Kyle would never walk out the front door again, but like the priest said, you had to have hope. So if I hoped hard enough, all of this would turn out to be one insanely horrific nightmare, and I would wake up to last month. Or last year. Ultimately, one of two things had to be right: Either I was going to see Kyle come out of his house, or this "hope" thing was bullshit.

Other people did walk in and out of the Saint-Claires' front door. Guys on the team. Pennyweather. Mr. Meiers. Most of our senior class. The Saint-Claires' relatives brought trays of food. Lake Road was crowded with cars. But by the third day, fewer people came by. By the weekend, just a handful.

Life moved on.

Our house remained quiet. I didn't turn on the radio. Or the stereo. Or the television. The phone rang every once in a while. The calls were mostly from parents who were acquaintances of my mom. I'd open my bedroom door and listen. They'd ask how I was doing, but always seemed more concerned with whether she had any idea why Kyle would've been climbing Redemption Bridge in a pounding rainstorm early on a Monday morning. I figured most people at school, and certainly the teachers, thought Kyle's death was suicide—the tragic result of a uniquely talented teenager pushed over the edge by overwhelming athletic and academic pressure. Or something just as pompously misguided.

My mom's response had become routine. "In all the years I've known Kyle, he was a very well-adjusted young man who came from a stable, close-knit family with two adoring parents and a younger sister."

Once, after she hung up the telephone, I stepped out of my bedroom and looked down the staircase.

"How're you feeling?" she asked.

I shrugged.

"I think it's time to go back to school," she said. "Tomorrow, okay?"

I had to return at some point. My mom said the board of education brought in a special counselor to speak to students. Seemed like a monumental waste. I couldn't see how some stranger was going to console me. What questions could they possibly ask? What answers would I bother to give?

"Maybe you need to go outside for a while," my mom said. "Get some fresh air."

***

For a while, I stood in the middle of the street, not sure what to do. In a cove opposite the dock, I saw a kid fishing. For no other reason than I felt I had to move my body, I walked onto the path toward him. As I approached, the kid raised his head.

"Catch anything?" I asked.

"Sunnies, mostly."

"What're you using?"

"Night crawlers."

I pointed to a pair of willow trees leaning over the water. "Might wanna cast it out that way. Under the branches. Don't use a bobber, though."

"Yeah?"

"A few years ago, me and a friend tossed a couple of mailboxes over—" I stopped myself. I had that pit in my gut again. Yeah, it was true—Kyle was gone. "Over there," I continued. "Hoping they'd become hiding places for catfish. I caught a four-pounder once."

"No way," the kid said. "A four-pounder?"

I nodded.

The bobber skittered across the water as he reeled in the line. He took off the bobber, stepped to the edge of the water, then pulled the rod back and cast it on a diagonal. The knot of worm plunked just underneath the willow tree branches. The kid studied the line for the slightest movement. I envied him. I envied that he could consume himself with whether or not a fish bit on the other end. It was so pointless, and yet so pure. I envied him, regretting that I might never again have a time as simple.

Jonathan...

My ears piqued. "Did you hear something?" I said.

"Hear what?" the kid said.

I ran up the embankment behind us and surveyed the area. But I didn't see anyone. Maybe what I'd heard was the wind whistling through the trees, or the whining sound of a car engine off in the distance.

Jonathan...

"Did you hear
that
?" I said.

The kid looked at me like I was crazy.

My eyes followed the shoreline of South Pond, but all I saw were nearly barren trees, one after the other. At the horizon, the setting sun broke through a seam in the clouds. Suddenly, everything came to life in a surreal way.

Vibrant green lily pads spun in circles, while the water's surface rippled and puckered one way, then the other. Above us, a flock of blue jays and cardinals left crisscrossing cobalt and red streaks in the sky, while the sun seemed so bright as to spit fire. Behind the dock, across the water, I noticed a girl sitting on the rowboat, tangled hair covering her face, a plaid skirt disheveled, her sweater smeared with dirt. The girl's hair parted slightly and her mouth curled into a wicked smile.

Then she went limp.

In an instant, everything turned grainy. I strained my eyes, but the girl seemed miles away. I took off down the path, running hard.

"Quit scarin' the fish!" the kid yelled.

I raced around the shoreline, jumping over tree roots, ducking under low-hanging branches. I tripped. Then tripped again. I came around to the open area behind the dock, ready to face whoever was there.

But no one was.

Just an empty rowboat.

I held the telephone tight in my hand. "Stephanie, it's me," I said, when she picked up.

"Jonny? Why're you calling?"

"I need to talk to you."

"It's really late."

"I know."

"Over here, things are—"

"A mess, I'm sure."

"No, Jonny," she said. "They're totally fucked up."

"I wouldn't have called if it wasn't important," I said. "Something strange happened today. Really goddamn strange."

"Another time, Jonny."

Give me just a few minutes," I said. "Please."

"You need to talk tonight?"

"Yes," I said. "We can meet out front."

"No," she said. "I don't want to have to explain to my parents. Meet me at the dock. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

***

Lake Road was blanketed in a vapor of darkness. My sneakers clicked oddly on the pavement and my ears stood rigid, straining to hear any sounds. I looked around but could see little. On a road where I had lived my entire life, near ponds where I had spent countless days fishing and throwing stones, uneasiness swept through my body. The trees were no longer familiar, the bushes no longer the playful hiding places they'd been when I was a kid.

I made my way along the path and followed that to the dock. There, I looked out over South Pond.

A twig snapped.

I turned.

"What's up, Jonny?" Stephanie stepped out of the shadows. "I was surprised to hear from you. People were calling about Kyle, offering condolences, wanting to tell us how magnificent he was on a soccer field, how much of a genius he was, how perfect he was in every way possible. But you didn't call for that, did you, Jonny?"

This is gonna sound crazy," I said. "I saw Annalisa today."