We All Fall Down (11 page)

“Maybe we could sue them,” she said, brightly, the kind of brightness that flashes just before tears.

They both laughed, brittle laughter ringing hollowly in the bedroom and as they looked at each other Buddy saw that they had accomplished something, at least, a sort of bond, not exactly friendship but a kind of alliance.

“Know what we are, Buddy?” Addy asked, voice rueful.

“What?” Buddy replied warily, a bit unsure of himself with this new Addy.

“Victims. Victims of child abuse.”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Mom and Dad never laid a hand on us.” Frowning, suddenly aghast: “Did something happen to you? Did Dad ever …”

“That’s not what I mean,” she scoffed, and for a moment she was the old Addy again, the pain-in-the-ass kid sister. “Not sexual abuse or even physical abuse. But just as bad in its own way. Divorce. A family breaking up. Mothers and fathers too selfish about themselves and ignoring their children …”

“They haven’t ignored us,” Buddy said, not certain why he was defending them. “Mom’s here. Dad keeps in touch.” That twenty-five-dollar check each week.

“That’s not what I mean by ignoring. I mean, ignoring the hurt, the invisible stuff that happens to kids. What’s happening to us.”

Buddy hated arguments, confrontations, did not like to articulate feelings, as if feeling would go away or would not have any existence at all if they were not put into words. He did not comment. In fact, he wanted to end this conversation, get out of here.

“Listen, Buddy, when I fell out of the tree that time I was nine years old and broke my arm, I didn’t cry. It hurt
like hell but I didn’t cry. But I’ve cried three times since Dad left. Middle-of-the-night crying.”

Tears gathered now in her eyes and she turned away, smacking her hands together the way a pitcher does before throwing the ball to a batter. His little sister in this pathetic parody of a ball player simply because she was trying to hide her tears.

“I hate them, I hate them,” she muttered, still turned away, still smacking her hands together.

He looked at the bottle on the bureau, the glass beside it. Reached out to touch her shoulder but unable, again, to do it. Reached out toward the bottle but stayed his hand.

“Don’t hate them, Addy,” he said. “Anyway, Mom’s still here. Dad was the one who left.”

“But he wouldn’t have left, wouldn’t have been attracted to someone else if everything had been fine with them.” Turning to him again: “Why doesn’t she fight back?”

That’s the difference between us, Buddy thought. Addy was a fighter, his mother wasn’t. Neither was he. He drifted, let others do the leading. Like with Harry Flowers. Following him in his exploits, into that house and the terrible things they did. “I don’t know,” he said, feeling useless.

“Poor Buddy.” Almost whispering, her voice sad and wistful.

He went to the door, unable to say any more. He did not want her pity. Did not want her bottle. Did not completely trust her yet. Maybe later. All he knew now was that he wanted to get out of the house, wanted to get downtown where Crumbs would supply him with the stuff that would take away all the lousy things in his life.

The Avenger hated the Mall.

He hated the crowds and the white lights and the music
coming from the loudspeakers. He felt lost and alone, not like an Avenger at all, his head aching from all the sights and sounds, his eyes sore from all the searching and looking. He was surprised to find so many old people in the Mall, looking sad and abandoned, lingering on the benches, some of them staring into space, others napping, eyes closed, mouths open.

The teenagers were everywhere. Moving, always on the go. Alone and in groups. Laughing and calling to each other. The guys pushing and shoving sometimes. Flirting with the girls and the girls flirting back, sidelong glances, secret smiles. Eating hot dogs and pizzas and big crazy sandwiches. Gulping Coke, 7-Up, other stuff.

Although he hated the Mall, he went there every day when the schools let out, having decided, through a process of elimination, that the Mall was the most likely place to find the trashers. He had reached this conclusion one day in his shed, where he had put his thinking cap on. Whenever he came across a tough problem, his mother always said: Put your thinking cap on. So that’s what he did. In his mind, he made out a list. He was good at picturing things in his mind. On one side, he saw the questions. On the other side, the answers. Like: What do you know about the trashers? Answer: They are young guys, all dressed up, teenagers. To find them you have to go where teenagers hang out, right? Right. And where do teenagers hang out? At the schools, high schools. Do teenagers really hang out at schools? Don’t they get out of the schools as fast as possible when the last bell rings? Right. Where do they go? Home, to part-time jobs at places like McDonald’s, the stores downtown or at the Mall.

The Mall. Right.

Sooner or later, everybody went to the Mall. To work in the stores or to hang out.

The Avenger sighed, dreading the prospect of going to the Mall every day but knowing that he had no other choice.

For the next three weeks, he went to the Mall almost every afternoon that his chores permitted him to go. He stationed himself for periods of time at the entrance, then walked through the place, looking, always looking, but acting as if he was not looking, trying not to act suspicious. But how do you do that? He figured that it was best to look natural, not to lurk behind the fake birches or the huge ferns placed here and there in the Mall. He did not stay in one spot too long, either, and whistled softly, looking at his watch occasionally, as if he were waiting for someone. Meanwhile, his eyes were like secret cameras, taking pictures of the guys going by or standing around in groups, his eyes darting here, there, and everywhere.

He learned to avoid the security guards, although they were not a problem. Even though they wore impressive uniforms, they were old, weary-looking, retired police officers, maybe. But The Avenger still avoided them, moving on if one of them approached. Meanwhile, he kept looking, searching, ignoring his aching head, his sore eyes.

Once in a while, his heart leaped in his chest as he spotted a face that looked familiar. This happened a few times. He would follow the guy, squinting, trying to get a clear look at him, trying to superimpose the face of a trasher on the suspicious face. He was always disappointed it was never a trasher. Then a terrible thought: Suppose he had already seen one of the trashers but had not recognized him? Suppose his memory was faulty? Impossible, he told himself. He was The Avenger. Whenever he closed his eyes, even in the turmoil of the Mall, he could bring forth the faces of the trashers, the way they had walked and
talked and yelled, the way they had looked, without any doubt at all.

But where were they?

He went into the stores, looking at the clerks, and learned that most of the clerks were girls, especially in the department stores. He spotted boys carrying boxes or pushing carts piled high with merchandise. Guys worked in the food places—McDonald’s, Papa Gino’s, Friendly’s. The Avenger got sick of eating pizzas and hamburgers, although he would not have thought that possible before his vigils at the Mall.

One day he saw Jane Jerome. His heart swelled up, seemed too big for his chest. Then began to pound. She was beautiful. She did not see him. He could not take his eyes from her. Like those nights when he used to watch her in her bedroom. She’d put down the window shade but not all the way, leaving an inch or so at the bottom. The Avenger watched her through that inch. Saw her doing her homework, the pencil tip between her lips. Full lips, pink. Saw her undressing. Taking off her blouse, revealing her white lacy bra. Dropping her skirt to the floor. She never picked up her clothes, left them draped over a chair, or flung on the bed, or simply to the floor, a puddle of skirt, blouses, or sweaters. She sometimes walked around in her bra and panties. He felt his eyes bulging. Felt hot and cold at the same time. Like chills and fever. Could hear his breath going in and out. He wondered if she knew he was watching at the window. Was performing for him, walking around almost naked. He blinked, confused. What if she took off her bra and panties? He had never seen a naked woman before. Did not know what he would do if she took off everything. But it was impossible for Jane Jerome to do something like that. Not his Jane. She was not like other girls. Not like her sister who did not even say hello to him
when she walked by, always in a hurry, never stopped to speak to him. He would not bother looking into
her
window. But at Jane’s window, he always felt strange—shivering and warm at the same time, hoping she would take off her bra and panties and yet not wanting her to do that. Only a bad girl would parade herself around knowing that someone was watching at the window. And Jane was not bad. As she tugged at the top of her panties, pulling them tight around her behind, he wondered: was she bad, after all?

One night, he found the shade pulled all the way down. Still down the next night. And all the other nights afterward. He was sad at first, as if he had lost something precious, and then he was relieved. You must resist temptation, his mother always said. He knew that Jane must be temptation, especially with the shade up.

Seeing her now in the Mall, he faded into the shadows under the escalator, watching her pass, eating her up with his eyes. Everything bright and shining about her. The way her body moved when she walked. Her hair bouncing. She had tied it at the back of her head in a ponytail and it bounced gently as she walked. He liked the back of her neck, the white skin peeking out of the wisps of hair. Why does she make me feel feverish? he wondered. She’s only a girl. She entered a store, out of sight, and he was both relieved and sad.

The Avenger began to dream of the Mall at night. Dreamed of himself walking through the place like it was a museum all black and white and the kids standing around like statues. Statues with big eyes staring at him. Following him as he walked by. He woke up sweating. And discouraged. Which was unusual because The Avenger never allowed himself to be discouraged. But all those afternoons at the Mall had been without success. Maybe the trashers
were not from around the Wickburg area. Maybe they came from places like Boston or Providence. Too far away. He groaned, tossing in the bed. How could he track them down in Boston? Or, wait, maybe they were just lying low. Keeping out of sight. Maybe they suspected that The Avenger had seen them that night and were staying away from public places. That could be the answer. Which meant that he would have to be patient again. Watch and wait. Bide his time. Wait for the means and the opportunity. It had worked before. With Vaughn Masterson and his grandfather. It would work again. He was The Avenger and The Avenger never failed.

He fell asleep and his dreams were sweet this time, although he could not remember them when he woke up in the morning.

“They’ve caught him,” her father announced, coming into the house, dropping his briefcase on the small table next to the front door.

Jane and her mother were descending the stairs from the second-floor bedrooms and said simultaneously: “Caught who?” Like a comedy act on television.

But it wasn’t comedy at all as they immediately realized who had been caught.

“One of the trashers,” her father said. “The ringleader, in fact.”

“Who is he?” Jane asked, strangely reluctant to hear the answer. She was afraid that it might be someone she knew, someone who was supposed to be a friend or a classmate at Burnside. Which would be worse than a stranger.

“Kid by the name of Harry Flowers. Lives in Wickburg. He’s a senior at Wickburg Regional.”

As her father talked Jane realized that something was wrong. But what? The words were right. The way he spoke,
fast as usual, was also right. But something else was not right at all.

“How did they catch him?” her mother asked.

“Jack Kelcey who lives around the corner on Vista Drive? He just came back from a business trip to the West Coast. He’d been gone almost a month and didn’t know about the trashing. When his wife told him about it, he remembered seeing a car on the street that night. He’d been suspicious and actually wrote down the plate number. Just in case. He’s a methodical guy, keeps a small notebook, records everything. He didn’t think any more about the car until he came home and heard about Karen and the house.…”

Still something wrong, Jane thought.

“They traced the plate number to Wickburg. To a big-name architect. Winston Flowers, who’s involved in designing condos. This kid is his son….” Her father loosened his tie. “The boy admits doing the damage. But he denies touching Karen. Said she fell down the stairs. He also says he was alone in the house, that nobody else was with him.”

“But the police said there must have been at least three or four of them,” her mother said, sinking to the bottom step of the stairway.

Finally, Jane knew what was wrong.

“He claims he was alone although he’s obviously lying,” her father said. “He’s probably also lying about not touching Karen.” Her father hesitated, still fumbling with his tie. “Thing is—the police don’t have much to go on.”

“Much to go on?” her mother said, rising to her feet again, voice shrill with anger. “Karen in a coma, what he did to this house, Mr. Kelcey who saw his car and he admits being here. What else do they need?”

Her father frowned, perspiration glistening on his
forehead, face flushed. He patted his pockets as if searching for cigarettes, although he had not smoked in years.

“The police have to go according to the evidence,” her father explained. “There is no direct evidence that he touched Karen. The boy denies it and Karen can’t testify. There is no evidence that he was
not
alone. There is no evidence that he broke into the house so they couldn’t arrest him for breaking and entering …”

This is what was wrong: her father had not looked at her since he had entered the house. Had looked only at her mother, as if Jane weren’t here, did not exist.

“Dad …” Jane began, chilly suddenly as if someone had left a window open and a cold wind was blowing across her flesh, causing goose pimples.