He traced the name on his mother's gravestone with one finger. It was rough stone, and cold. Julia Jeremiah. Not his last name. He sucked in his breath, he wished it was.
"Mom," he whispered, but he meant goodbye. He wouldn't be here anymore to touch this stone, his last link with his mother. No more. He'd never be here again. He could feel the bruises under his shirt, could feel all the broken blood vessels and hair line fractures in his ribs. Felt it. Every time he breathed in he felt it.
He'd seen Joey with Angela, seen how even if he got mad he held his temper and he wanted a family like that so bad he could taste it, like blood in his mouth. He wanted Joey to be his dad and not just Angie's.
Angie. Small dark girl with wild curls like his, eyes like Joey's, a smile like his mother's. Angela was his link with his mother, her DNA was in Angie like it was in him. The only other one in the world.
"Why would Joey Jeremiah be calling me?" His dad had asked in that dead pan sarcastic way and Craig had froze. No, no, Joey didn't call him tell him he saw Craig with Angela or saw Craig anything no no…
Enough. Enough trying to be some perfect kid he could never be. Enough racing home and missing the good light to have dinner with his father, to tip toe around his temper even though it didn't do any good.
If only his mother were alive, if only. His eyes filled with tears but they didn't fall, just made the head stone shimmery, blurred her name. He took his hand away slowly. Mom.
Today wasn't different from all the other days. Violence in the air like smog, and he breathed it in. He never knew when the belt would strike.
Today wasn't different, his father's hands in that praying position, eyes small and unreadable behind the thick lenses. And Craig felt small and dumb and worthless and he wished to God that Angie would never find out how lucky she was that her father never lost his temper.
He'd packed all his pictures of Angie and Joey and his mom and those would go with him to British Columbia, where it was warm and sunny and he was happy, once.
"Open the door, Craig, now!" Adrenaline had shot through him when the club hit the door. Whistling through the air and smack, tearing at the wood, splintering it. What good were all his locks? Locks wouldn't stop him from screwing up, from coming home late, from breaking some rule he didn't even know about.
He'd called Sean, his new friend. Maybe Sean would leave with him because he had to leave but he didn't want to be alone.
The day in the park with Angie had been so fine. The sun shining on her dark hair, like it had on his mother's hair. When he was with Angie it was like, kind of like being with his mom again. And all that money in his pocket.
"No hard feelings," his dad had said, and Craig had agreed. No hard feelings. Kicked and beaten and strapped. No hard feelings. His ribs hurt and his back hurt and his head hurt and his wrists where his father grabbed him. It was okay.
Why would he need a camera to take pictures of Angie if she could always be with him? He'd be a better father to her than Albert Manning was to him.
Joey yelling for Angela, his face hard, eyes narrowed. He shouldn't have been with her at the park, his dad had said no. Craig hung his head for a moment then smiled and laughed. He could play it off as nothing. It was nothing.
"You could come with us," Angela piped up in her little voice, and Joey's stern look grew sterner and Craig wanted to run even though he knew Joey wouldn't hit him.
"Go where?" Joey said, staring at Craig in horror and disbelief.
"No where," Craig said, his tone light, but his hands were twitching.
"On the bus," Angela said, and Craig just stared at her. How could she know it was a secret? How could she know he couldn't stay here?
"What?" Joey was angry but now puzzled, too, his brow knitted over his eyes. If it was his father he'd be swinging at this point, and Craig felt the breathless fear that Joey might, too.
"He's got a lot of money," Angie said, grabbing for his pocket. Craig tried to jerk away, not wanting Joey to see the money or the bruises and Joey was scooping Angela up in his arms and carrying her away.
"Stay away from her like your father said," Joey spat at him, and Craig's eyes widened. Okay. No Angela. No happy family. Just beatings. No way out. Okay.
At home he felt weird. Quiet house. His dad at work at the hospital fixing people. Fixing them. Ha. Cutting them and hurting them, just like he hurt Craig. And he came home happy to see him and Craig felt the hope like he'd felt a thousand times, that it could be okay. That he could be good enough. That his dad could change. Then the phone rang.
"Joey," his dad's voice, the strange up down way he said Joey. He hated Joey. His wife left him for Joey. And Craig's hope left for the last time. There were hard feelings. No one was ever going to change. He was a rotten kid and his dad would never be Joey Jeremiah.
It occurred to him, balancing on the railroad tracks that gleamed in the sun that Sean might run away with him.
"I can't leave," Sean had said.
It didn't matter, didn't matter. Nothing much mattered anymore. He wished Sean hadn't pulled him from the tracks when the only thing that was real was the roar of the train, blocking out everything else for once.
Craig stood up, still staring at the name on the stone. He couldn't get used to her being gone, couldn't get used to having nowhere to turn to when things got bad. He reached for his bag and it wasn't there.
When he'd stared down the tracks at the train, the headlights and the oncoming rush of air and noise filling every space in his head, he had been clutching the bag in his arms. He'd had it then. Then Sean grabbed him around the waist and pulled him down and the train rattled by and when Sean let go he ran. He'd heard Sean shouting something but he couldn't understand what it was.
The tears in his eyes rolled down his cheeks. His pictures. Angela and Joey and his mom. He couldn't go without a picture of his mom. There was one at his house hidden in his room. He'd go back and get it and then go to British Columbia. And no one would stop him.
Back past the homeless kids huddled around the fire in the old can, kids who stared at him like they wanted to eat him. Past the railroad tracks. In the dim moonlight he could see his bag was gone. Back into the nice neighborhood of big white houses and neat green lawns, the neighborhood of lawyers and doctors and CEO's.
His house was dark enough. Maybe his dad was gone, or asleep, or, or anything. Craig walked slowly, hearing the gravel of the driveway shift under his feet, hearing the whish of the club as it slammed into his bedroom door. "Open the door, now!" His father's voice so real in his head that Craig winced.
He'd get his picture and get out and his father wouldn't stop him. He slipped the key from under the mat and opened the door, the creak of the door sending chills of fear through Craig's spine. Don't wake him, don't wake him, he prayed, lips moving silently with the request. Don't wake him.
Inside, dim rooms, quiet house, Craig went to his father's study and to his desk drawer where he kept his gun. His father wouldn't stop him this time. Wouldn't shove him to the ground and kick him. Wouldn't raise his belt and whip him. He was getting his picture and getting out, and God help his father if he tried to get in his way.
Gun shoved hastily in the waistband of his pants, the metal heavy and cold against his skin. He crept up the carpeted stairs, slowly, so the stairs wouldn't creak. Up to his bedroom door, wood all splintered out from gouges and gashes, the door swung open, locks all bashed and busted. Craig sucked in his breath, feeling the pull in his hurt ribs.
Feeling under his mattress for the picture, hidden there so his dad wouldn't find it, he felt the slick surface of the picture with his fingertips and pulled it out.
"Craig,"
His father, his dead calm voice, eyes hidden behind flat glass in the dim light. Craig stared at him, jaw slack, eyes huge, picture held loosely between his fingers.
"Where have you been?" That tone, reasonless and logicless and it made Craig's legs feel weak, made his muscles tense.
With two hands he pulled the gun out and leveled it at his father. The picture of his mother slipped to the floor and Craig heard the sound it made against the carpet.
He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the trigger, and the noise of the gun going off in his hand made him feel deaf, and seemed to echo and re echo in his head.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0
When Craig opened his eyes he saw his father slumped in his doorway, saw blood and brain splattered on the walls. He stared, slack jawed, unable to comprehend what he had done.
Too numb to cry Craig sat on the floor beside his father's crumpled body and hugged his knees, rocked back and forth.
When the dawn showed pink and gold through the window Craig stood up, stepped over the body, and went downstairs. He left the house and began to walk toward the only place he could think of to go. Joey's.
Joey opened the door after his third knock. Craig had been prepared to go on knocking all day.
"Craig?" Joey held a cup of coffee. A blue terry robe flapped around him.
"Craig, what are you doing here?" Too tired yet to be angry.
"Shouldn't you be at school?" Craig didn't answer, just stared up at him, this man with the sharp eyes and blue terry bathrobe who should have been his father.
"Joey, I…"
Joey shook his head.
"Craig, come in here," But he didn't move. Saw Angela's face behind Joey light up.
"Craig!"
Something was wrong, Joey felt it like a cold finger against his spine. Craig shouldn't be here. And he'd never seen anyone look quite so wrong as Craig looked, just staring at him, eyes huge, mouth moving but no words coming out. He'd never seen anyone so young look so bad.
"C'mon. Get in here," He grabbed the lapel of Craig's black leather jacket and pulled him in.
"Craig!" Angie said, smiling, peering up at him. He didn't acknowledge her, he barely acknowledged Joey. He stood still and stared, his breathing quick and shallow.
"Angie, honey, go upstairs and get dressed. I want to talk to Craig alone,"
"Do I have to?"
"Yes, please, go upstairs,"
She went, black curls bouncing around her face. Joey watched her until she disappeared around the corner upstairs.
"Craig, sit down," He said it sharp, nearly yelling, not because he was mad but because he was trying to get through Craig's soft disconnect. It worked. Craig flinched and looked at Joey and sat down.
"Tell me what's wrong," Joey said.
"I, um, I shot him,"
"Shot who?"
"My father. I shot him. Killed him,"