The Truth (5 page)

Then

The dream came back last night.

“Shoot him! Shoot him!” I'm screaming at Dad. But Dad's moving toward the girl instead, 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. The guy's about to shoot, and Dad's almost there, and my fingers are almost touching…

• • •

The shooting happened too late to make Friday's edition of the county rag. But like Detective Fyfe said, there's a story in Saturday's paper. Front page.

LOCAL TEEN SHOOTS INTRUDER

Followed by a basic rundown of what happened. There really isn't much more to it than what Detective Fyfe told me. No mention of any family members other than his mother.

Down the page is a profile of Caleb Brannick, along with a picture of him. He's smiling, and I take a good long look at him. But try as I might, I can't make the picture fit with who I saw bleeding on our kitchen floor.

Mom takes the calls from various news agencies interested in speaking to me. She also drives Devon to his playoff practice. Normally, I take him to all his practices. He's still not talking to me though. Mom says he was fine at practice and so was everyone around him. The collision is forgotten. Devon didn't mean to hurt anyone, everyone says. Not a nice kid like him.

In Sunday's paper, there's an editorial.

The headline reads:

LOCAL TEEN A HERO

I almost don't read it.

By now, just about everyone has heard about what happened in Maple-Braden Township early Friday morning, while most everyone else was sleeping. The kind of life-and-death decision most of us have never faced, and hopefully never will, confronted sixteen-year-old Chris Russo. And the boy faced it head-on. Like a man.

I begin to skim the rest, asking myself why I'm bothering to read it at all, until I come to this:

Chris Russo is the sixteen-year-old son of Michael Thomas Russo, a Maple-Braden police officer who was killed in the line of duty when his oldest son was thirteen, leaving behind his wife, Linda; Chris; and his younger son, Devon. The officer was responding to a domestic dispute. A man with a gun was holding his own daughter hostage. There wasn't time for reinforcements to get there. Perhaps he was tired, since he was several hours into the second of a double shift, and wasn't thinking as clearly as he would have been otherwise. But it is believed that Officer Russo, in hopes of keeping the man from shooting the girl, put his gun down on the ground, breaking one of the cardinal rules of law enforcement—a police officer never relinquishes his weapon. But one thing is known for sure: as more police arrived, the man pulled the trigger and would have killed the girl had Officer Russo not jumped between them and taken the bullet meant for her.

Would it have turned out differently if Russo had held on to his gun?

Perhaps his oldest son was remembering that when he decided to take the gun…

There's more, but I put the paper down midsentence.

Mom, having walked into the room, sighs and says, “He shouldn't have written that about your father.”

She fiddles for something in her shirt pocket, makes herself stop. But not before I make out the tip of a cigarette.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I nod. But I'm not seeing her. Instead, I am seeing the picture of Caleb Brannick in yesterday's paper. Then I see him on the floor, eyes begging me for something, blood pumping.

I still can't make them match.

Now

“That was a good picture of Caleb,” Derek says, surprising me. “I didn't know Mom even had any pictures, much less a good one.” He looks at me. “That was the first you knew his name? When you saw it in the paper?”

The little finger on my left hand is still cushioned between the blades of the garden shears. But Derek has let up on the pressure. “No, it was when Detective Fyfe told me,” I say, hearing the tremble in my voice. “But…seeing it in the paper like that made it more…”

“Real?” he finishes for me after I hesitate.

After a moment, I nod.

He leans back, pulling the garden shears from my finger, which allows me to breathe a little easier. “I read that article,” he says. “The writing sucked. He waits till the end to tell everyone that my brother was only thirteen. Like it doesn't matter. What it said about your father… That really happened? Your father died saving that girl?”

“Yes,” I say, my voice a hoarse whisper.

“Did he really put his gun down?”

“That's what they say.”

“That's rough. You taking over for him like that, that's not easy. Guess you really love your brother to be willing to do that.”

“Yes.”
Where the hell is he going with this?

“I loved my brother too, you know,” Derek continues. “I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't.”

I don't say anything.

“You want some more water?”

“Please.”

Derek goes to get it and gives it to me the same as before.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. Then I add, “Thank you.”

He tosses the empty cup to the side and sits back down. “Sounds like your dad was really into your brother playing baseball. All that attention he gave him… Must've made you jealous.”

“No,” I say, hesitating. “Not at all.”

“Come on. I can hear it in your voice.”

“No, really. It just…”

“Just what?” he asks.

“We were different.”

“Yeah. He was the favorite son and you weren't. Seems pretty straightforward to me. Happens all the time in families. Not your fault you weren't the athlete your dad wanted.”

“I…I tried…”

“To be an athlete? Play baseball?”

I nod.

“But you gave it up.”

“Yes.”

“How old were you?”

I look at him. “Ten.”

“So you were already a disappointment to your dad before your brother started playing baseball.”

I open my mouth, then close it.

“Clearly you didn't measure up to the vision Daddy had of the perfect son. Thank God he had Devon, huh?”

“Please stop it.”

“Doesn't that piss you off?”

“I told you!” I snap. “We were just different. Had different interests.”

Derek stares at me. “Okay, I'll bite. What were you interested in?”

After a moment, I tell him, “School choir.”

He almost smiles. “Really? You liked to sing?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you any good?”

I don't answer.

“Did your dad like to watch you sing in the choir?”

“Sure.”

“I don't know,” he says, shaking his head. “You answered that kind of quick. Maybe too quick. You still in choir now?”

I hesitate. “No.”

“Why?”

“I stopped.”

“You mean you had to stop. To take care of your brother. Did you want to?”

“It was no big deal.”

“That's not my question. Did you
want
to stop?” He leans in, waving the garden shears in front of me. “The truth, remember?”

When I don't respond, he lays the flat part of the shears onto my left hand.

“No,” I answer finally, my voice a harsh whisper.

“Right,” he says, pulling back. “Anything for your brother. Don't talk about what you want, only talk about what little brother wants. Even the last conversation you had with your dad… That's a shame. Really.”

I look at him. “What are you talking about?”

Derek looks at me. “It was your last special walk with Daddy before he was killed, and what does he talk about? Your brother. How he's going to get better and better. How great it is he's going to get to play fall ball. What a great kid he is, blah blah blah. I'll bet he did that a lot on your special walks.”

“Wait a minute, that's not—”

“And then to make things worse, he got himself killed protecting some kid he doesn't even know, leaving you to hold the bag to do his job. Take care of your brother. Make sure his baseball career's going okay. What a bastard.”

“Stop it!” I blurt out. “He's not… You don't have the right—”

“I have
every right
!” Derek suddenly shouts, his spittle dotting my face. “
Your
brother's alive. Mine isn't. Because
you
killed him. That gives me the right to say what the hell I want!” He grabs hold of my little finger again with the blades of the garden shears.

I feel them pressing again. Glancing down, I can see where blood has started to trickle out from under the blades.

“
I'm
in control! We talk about what
I
want to talk about! You were jealous of your brother. Mad at your dad. Mad at him even now, right? Truth, remember? You know the penalty if you lie. The man's using his private time with you, his oldest son, to talk about Devon. Then he dies saving another kid's life. Where did you fit in? When were you going to get your moment? When were you going to become important enough for him to—”

All at once, he starts to cough. It doesn't last as long this time. When he's finished, he leans back, even pulling the garden shears away.

I should keep my mouth shut, but I can't. “What do you care? Why is it so important to you?”

I don't know how he's going to react, and I shut my eyes. When nothing happens, I open them to find him staring at me.

After a long silence, he sighs. “Fathers,” he mutters. “They can be a pain sometimes. You should have met my dad; he was a real prick. You're not the only one who had to watch over a younger brother…” He falters.

I wait, expecting him to continue. He says nothing for a long time. I hate this silence game. Am I supposed to say something now? He's holding the shears in his lap. Maybe he's had a change of heart. Maybe…

And just like that, the blades slide easily back into place.

Then

Monday. My first day back at school since the shooting. I have no idea how my classmates or teachers will act, but I need to be ready. I've thought it through, and if I'm going to get through this, if I'm going to make this work, I have to own it. That means, if people ask, I'm going to talk about it. This is my fault, my responsibility.

It's what Dad would want.

Eating this morning in the dining room instead of the kitchen, Devon is still subdued. He talks to Mom but not to me unless he has to. Something's changed between us, and I'm not sure how to fix it.

“Playoffs start tonight,” I try after a bite of Frosted Flakes. Like he doesn't already know that. “Does Coach think you guys are ready for the big game?” I sound inane.

After a moment, he shrugs. “I think so.”

“Do
you
think you're ready?”

Silence. Followed by a nod. He continues to stare at his cereal instead of looking at me.

“Did you hit any balls out of the park at Saturday's practice?”

“A couple,” he mumbles. He looks at Mom. “May I leave for school a little early? I can play on the playground.”

“Sure,” she says. “Make sure you brush your teeth first.”

“Just give me a minute and I'll be ready to go too,” I tell him. I always walk with him in the morning since his school is on the way to the high school; he gets a ride home from Brady's mom in the afternoons.

“I wanna walk by myself,” he says at the bottom of the stairs. “I'm big enough.”

I stare at him, but he's looking at Mom, not me. “You bet you are,” she says after a moment. “That's fine.”

He hurries upstairs. I hear the faucet go on in the bathroom.

I say nothing. I'm not sure my voice would work if I tried.

After a moment, Mom says, “I made an appointment with some professional cleaners. They're coming today to work on the kitchen while I'm at the diner. It'll be done by the time you get home.”

The faucet turns off and Devon comes back downstairs. He's got his backpack on, and he goes up to Mom and gives her a hug. “Have a good day,” she says, smiling.

He turns and starts out of the room. “Hey, Devon,” I call out.

He stops, waits.

“I'll see you after school, okay?”

He nods without looking at me, then leaves the room. I hear the front door open and close a couple seconds later.

I dip my spoon into my cereal and leave it there. Mom says, “Don't take it to heart, Chris. When you were his age, there were times you were so mad at me I was sure you hated me.”

I take in a deep, shaky breath. “This is…different.”

“No, it's not. I watch him on the baseball field, a head taller than every other kid out there… It's easy to forget he's only ten. But he loves you. More than anybody. More than me, I think.”

“That's not true—”

“It is. And that's fine. Did you talk to him like I said?”

“No.”

“Then you don't even know what he's mad about.”

I look down. “He's mad at me about what happened the other night.”

“Why?”

“I think maybe because I didn't stay with him. Because I…”

“Killed somebody?”

I look up at her, surprised.

“If that's the case,” she continues, “once he thinks about it, he'll understand.”

“Understand what?”

“That sometimes there are things you have to do to protect the ones you love.”

I hesitate. Look down again. “He was only thirteen.”

“And if you hadn't gone downstairs, and he'd come up and killed you, would it matter then that he was thirteen?” She leans across the table toward me. “Yes, it's a shame he was so young. But you and Devon are alive. That's what matters to me. Devon is ten years old; if he doesn't understand, well, make him understand. Talk to him when he gets home from school today.”

“He's got the game—”

“So? Just do it.” She takes in another deep breath and stares at me in silence.

“What?” I say finally.

“This is my fault,” Mom says. “I should have been here when it happened.”

“Mom, it's not—”

She waves me off. “He lost his father way too young, and before I knew it, you had stepped into the role. I haven't told you enough how much it means to me. But I depend on you too much. I forget you're sixteen. You should be out with friends, doing the things teenage boys do. You're too young to be a pseudo-parent. I shouldn't be the one out on dates. You should.”

“Mom, stop it. I'm okay. Devon and I will work it out.”

Mom reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “Promise me you'll talk to him when he gets home from school.”

“Mom…”

“Promise me.”

After a moment, I tell her, “I promise.”

• • •

“Are you okay?” Terry asks me in the hallway. I'm getting a little tired of him asking me that.

Fifth period. Lunch.

“Everybody's talking about you,” Terry says as we walk toward the cafeteria.

“Not to me they aren't,” I tell him.

“They probably don't know what to say to you. Doesn't mean they aren't talking.”

“Mr. Schubert called me into his office.”

“What did Principal Dorko want?”

“I think he just felt he had to 'cause it was his job. He said a lot of kids are probably going to want to talk to me about it, but it was better for me and for everyone if I didn't let it go to my head and stay focused on my schoolwork. If I can't, then maybe I should stay home for a couple days.”

“What a dickwad.”

“He did say I could talk to the school counselor, if I wanted to.”

“Are you going to?”

I shake my head. “I don't see the point.”

“I heard Feiler and Baumann talking.” Science teacher and English teacher. “Baumann said he totally agrees with what you did.”

I get a queasy feeling in my stomach.

“Baumann probably wishes
he
could shoot a few students,” Terry continues. “If somebody pointed a gun at him though, I bet he'd piss his pants.”

In the cafeteria, we find a table. I pull out my bag lunch.

“Tom Callahan says you should get a medal,” Terry offers.

“Really?”

“Bob Reidy says if it had been him in that situation, he wouldn't have waited for the kid to pull a gun.”

“Reidy should shut the hell up.”

“Chris, you didn't tell me he was only thirteen.”

I don't say anything.

“It doesn't matter, you know,” he says. “He still tried to…you know.”

Is he going to push this?

“How's Devon?” he asks.

The question startles me. “What do you mean?”

“The game. Running into the catcher. It was…I don't know…weird.”

“He's fine.”

“Like Matt said, he must think you're a hero. The way you stood up for you and him.”

Before I can respond, Matt, Eric, and Ben join us. Not just them—they've brought a crowd. Five or six others surround us while Matt sits across from me. Rita Moyer is part of the group. There was a time when seeing her here, showing some interest in what I have to say, would have made me happy. But that was before a month ago, when I finally got up the nerve to ask her out to the spring dance and she said she couldn't go because she had something else that night. Then she ended up going to the dance with Matt. I stayed home with Devon that night so Mom could work a night shift.

“All right, we're here,” Matt says.

I look at him. “Here for what?”

“For what?” Matt says, smiling at the rest of the group he's assembled. “Like you don't know you're the big story around here.” He leans across the table. “You agreed, remember? To tell us what happened?”

I notice other kids in the cafeteria glancing our way. A few teachers too.

“I didn't know you had it in you,” Matt continues. “Like something out of the movies. Bruce Willis kind of shit. You faced the ultimate and you didn't choke. You came through. No one's gonna mess with you now.” He grins. “So tell us about it,” he says, pulling back and waving his hand to indicate the crowd as if he's a talk show host and I'm the main guest.

“What…do you want to know?” I say finally.

“What was it like? It must have been, I don't know, like being in a video game or something.”

I look at him.

“You know.
Call of Duty
?
Medal of Honor
? Those games are like the real thing.”

“I…I don't play those games,” I say in a low voice.

“Oh.” Matt looks a little annoyed now. He brought these people over to give them a show and I'm not delivering. “Come on, tell us. Was it cool or what?”

I glance up at the group of kids gathered behind him. Most of them would probably pass me by without saying a word to me, but now they're all watching me expectantly, interested in what I have to say. “Yeah,” I tell them. “It was cool.”

Matt gets a big grin on his face, looking again at the group he's gathered, then back at me. “What was it like to watch him go down?” he asks. “God, it must've felt…I don't know… Did he draw first and you were faster? Was he dead right away? Or did he, you know…take a while?”

The guy is looking at me, shaking, his eyes pleading, like he wants to tell me something but can't.

“I was faster,” I say quietly. “And…yes, it took a while.”

“Was there a lot of blood?”

The bullet got him in the neck. The blood keeps coming.

“Yeah.”

“Jeez. And you…watched him?”

“I called 911.”

I notice Terry staring at me. Eyes wide. I haven't even told
him
this much.

“I gotta hand it to you. You've got balls.”

“Well, you gotta do what you gotta do.”

“That's right,” Matt says. “People gotta learn, they mess with you, there are consequences. Listen, I might be having a party this weekend, if I can convince my parents. You wanna come? A lot of other kids wanna hear what really happened. Not the crap they read in the paper or see on the news.”

He leans forward again, motioning me to meet him at the middle of the table, his mouth almost to my ear. “I know a couple girls especially would be interested in talking to you.” Pulling back once more, he says, “Give me your cell.”

“Sure.” Feeling as if I'm in a daze, I pull it out and hand it to him.

He pushes buttons on my phone as he talks. “Here's my cell number. In case you wanna do something or just hang out. You know?”

Kids are watching in wonder, and I can tell what they're thinking. Matt Fisher is actually giving Chris Russo his cell phone number. How many of them wish they had the same privilege? I notice Terry staring at us with the same wide-eyed envy.

Matt slides my phone back to me. “Text me so I can have your number.” I do, typing “text” on the screen and pressing Send. “Great,” he says after hearing the ding from his phone. “Talk to you later.” He gets up, nods at the others, and, as if they were waiting for their cue, they move with him.

“Later, Chris,” Eric says, patting me on the arm. A few others smile at me as they follow Matt.

“See you guys,” Terry says, like he's been friends with them forever. I give them a wave myself, still not sure I believe what just happened.

I notice Rita is one of the last to leave as she stares at me a moment before finally turning away.

“Man, you're in,” Terry says after everyone's gone. “You're a celebrity, dude. Inquiring minds wanna know. You'll be able to milk this for a
long
time.”

I just shrug.

“You're going.”

He means to the party. “I'll have to check with Mom, make sure she doesn't need me to stay with Devon.”

“You're kidding, right? Let
her
stay with Devon.”

When I don't respond, he asks, “You okay?”

I look at him. “I'm fine,” I tell him, putting a little edge to my voice. “Why do you keep asking me that?”

“Sorry. I've just never seen you act like… Sorry.” Terry stands up, his lunch tray in hand, and says, “I'm gonna see if they've got any of those brownies left. I'll get you one. My treat.”

He walks away, and for the moment, I'm alone. And it feels…I don't know…better than it felt a few minutes ago with everybody standing around expecting something from me, even if part of me enjoyed getting all that attention. It's hard to explain, even to myself. I consider getting up and leaving before Terry gets back, but when I turn, I see Rita standing there staring at me, looking great as always, I have to admit, with her light-brown hair pulled back and her face always looking like she just scrubbed it. Looking great, except for the angry expression on her face.

“I…I think…” she says, fidgeting. “I think what you just did was awful.”

Her comment catches me off guard.

“How can you sit there telling people about it, all the gory details, like it's some great story? Like it was just an adventure you had, like what happened was nothing?”

I can't think of anything to say, so I just sit here, waiting for her to continue.

“Do you think you're special now? A star? Why don't you get Mr. Schubert to give you the auditorium for a period. You can tell the whole school how exciting it was, sign autographs afterward.”

“I—”

“You know, I'm glad I didn't go to the dance with you last month.”

Why the hell would she bring that up?

“I wouldn't say yes to you if you were the only guy on earth—”

“So why didn't you just leave?” I hear myself saying, cutting her off.