Four months later...
Four months after that snowy day, school was done, and it was awesome. Students streamed through the doors of Lillian Middle School, pulling bikes off the racks, buses rumbling out of the parking lot as the dark brick walls echoed with laughter. A high-flying American flag flapped in the stiff breeze. 'HAVE A GREAT SUMMER!' the noticeboards announced. Girls hugged each other goodbye while most of the boys just ran, happy to be free.
Joe Lamb pushed through the crowd outside, his schoolbag draped over one shoulder, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. His cherubic face was framed by messy brown hair, and he grinned ridiculously as he looked around for—
"Oh my god that was the longest day EVER!"
—Charles Kaznyk, his best friend, who suddenly appeared out of the crush. Charles was a bigger kid who'd always been afflicted by childhood chubbiness (plus a rainbow-striped shirt that didn't do him any favours). He fell in step beside Joe and slapped a spiral notebook into his hands. "Here."
Joe squinted in the sunshine. "What's this?"
"New scene, check it out. Let's hit the 7'."
He scanned the pages as they walked across the parking lot, surrounded by girls in summer dresses and boys in sweaty shirts. "You hear Martin barfed in the hall?"
"I know – does that guy ever not barf? Keep reading."
"I am reading."
"Not carefully," Charles said impatiently. "Focus, this is important."
Joe's gaze caught an unexpected addition. "Detective Hathaway has a wife now?" he asked, puzzled.
"I don't know. I think it might make a better movie… a better storyline, and production value."
"Hey! Guys!" The pair became a trio as Cary joined them, a short kid with wavy blond hair, buck teeth and a wonderfully manic expression that never seemed to fade. "Guys! Martin barfed all over his locker today. It was the grossest one yet—"
"Oh my god, shut up," Charles retorted.
"—after he ate two boxes of Mike and Ikes. I've never seen so many colours in my life!"
Joe couldn't help but smile. Walking through the parking lot, ears filled with whooping and hollering, sun beating down upon his shoulders with two of his best friends, it felt… right. Awesome. Perfect. It wasn't a feeling he had very often in the last few months. Sometimes, life is pretty great. Just try and remember that, alright? He turned back to Charles' notebook. "So who's gonna play the wife? Jen?"
"No WAY. I told you what she did with my top hat—"
"Oh yeah, that was bad."
"What wife?" Cary interrupted.
"Alice Dainard," Charles said.
Joe paused in the middle of the road; then had to run to catch up. What?
"I was returning that book on codes and ciphers," Charles explained. "She was in the silent reading section. I thought, 'screw it', and asked her if she'd play Hathaway's wife."
They stopped at a gumball machine next to the local 7-Eleven. Cary bent over and slotted in a coin, the dial going click-click-click.
Joe stared at Charles. "Wait. You talked to Alice Dainard, really?"
"You're not supposed to talk at all in the silent reading section—" Cary whispered.
"Shut up."
"—it's for silent reading."
Charles ignored him. "She said yes. We're filming tonight, and she's driving."
"Driving? Driving where?" Joe asked.
"The train depot. Didn't you read the scene I gave you?"
The trio swung through the 7-Eleven doors, into a world of bright primary colours. Excited kids sifted through tubs of candy and fridges full of ice-cream, coins jingling in pockets. Charles grabbed a pack of chewing gum from under the counter and started walking down the central aisle.
Joe frowned. "Does Alice have a licence?"
"I don't know."
"Is she old enough?"
"I don't know."
"Whose car is she taking… Are you making this up?"
Charles sighed. "Jesus, freakshow, she offered to drive and I accepted." He fished a couple of chocolate bars out from a cardboard box.
Cary examined his gumball critically, then he snatched the notebook from Joe's hands. "Can I see those?"
"Was she nice?" Joe asked. "Why is she doing this? I don't understand – we don't even know her."
"Maybe she just wants to be in good movie. Did you ever think of that?" Charles rolled his eyes.
"I don't think that's what it is…"
"Joe, I've been working on this movie for months; I'm just trying to make it good–"
Cary snorted. "Hathaway's married now? Really?"
Charles retrieved his script pages with a glare and began rifling through a shelf of Pringles. A harried-looking mom strode past, boxes of cereal under each arm, followed by some giggling pre-schoolers. The arcade machine at the back of the store beeped and blooped.
Suddenly, Joe appeared at the end of the shelf. "What book was she reading?" he asked, wide-eyed.
"…What?"
"In the silent reading section, what book was Alice reading?"
"Who gives a rat's ass what she was reading?" Charles leaned in close, getting desperate. "The festival deadline is in a week, and my movie's gotta be great."
Darkness. Gloomy, grainy darkness.
Then light – a door opens and a figure appears, standing in silhouette.
The light reveals an old warehouse, dirty and cobwebbed, crowded with crates, barrels, old machinery. The figure is a young detective, wearing glasses and a trenchcoat that's slightly too big. Tall for his age. Strong jaw and cheekbones. He turns on his flashlight and sweeps it across the area, and for a moment it flares across the lens.
Slowly, the detective steps into the spooky space, accompanied by a low, droning hum. Then, as he walks, another sound – a strange slither – and he shines his flashlight. He watches, waits. Tense. The camera swings to follow his gaze, cutting through the thick dust in the air. Before him lies an office door, slightly ajar. On it is a DANGER sign: 'no smoking, matches, or open lights'.
The detective is still. Nervous. He watches the door, as if waiting for it to open. Then, something snarls! The camera swings behind him to the source of the noise and creeping up is a child-like terror – wild-eyed, open-mouthed – and before he can react it leaps at him! He staggers back, flashlight falling to the ground. The detective struggles desperately, his assailant scratching, growling, pressing him against the bare brick wall. A close-up of the terror's face; it's a zombie, with whited eyes and hungry, bloody lips. (The zombie also has braces… but the camera keeps them out of focus).
Wide shot: the detective struggles, teeth bared, hands pushing the creature's shoulders. He pulls a gun from his pocket but the zombie snatches at it and the weapon drops onto the floor. Cutaway to the gun, which skitters along the concrete. The detective spins away, holding the zombie at bay. The camera moves with the struggling figures and the zombie growls again. Its eyes are… disturbing. Close-up: three sharp nails, embedded in a beam. The detective notices, grits his teeth then shoves the zombie backward, slamming its head into the wall exactly where the nails would be.
Thwack! The camera pulls back. Sees the zombie lie still. The detective backs away – panting, horrified, but triumphant. Cut back to the zombie, which gurgles terribly as syrupy-looking blood begins to dribble from its mouth, staining its checkered shirt, dripping to the floor with a gentle spatter.
The image froze; then abruptly went white. In the background Charles' film reel spun to a stop, clicking and flickering.
Joe turned away from the projector, smiling appreciatively. "That was a REALLY good zombie murder." Seriously, it looks like we really did stuff Cary's head full of nails.
"Yeah, but it's not a – thank you for that – it's not a story yet," Charles insisted. He got up from his desk, snatched an old shirt from where it hung in the window. Brightness suddenly filled the bedroom. "Older kids are entering this film festival, fifteen and sixteen-year-olds, who have better stories and…"
A box clattered to the floor. Joe winced.
"…and cars and production value. I've got nothing."
Mrs Kaznyk's voice echoed through the door. "Charles, dinner!"
"I'm coming!…" Charles rummaged through the blankets on his bunk bed, tossing old magazines over his shoulder. "There's this article I want you to read. It explains everything about stories."
Pencil sketches and movie posters plastered the bedroom walls: Earthquake, Dawn of the Dead, Michael Myers in Halloween. The desk was loaded with a whole mess of boyish gear, from stereo speakers and scout badges to magic kits and telescopes. A creaking shelf in the corner held schoolbooks and battered boardgames. Strips of film hung from a stretched piece of elastic.
Now Charles was lying on the floor, searching through years of accumulated junk. Joe ambled over. "…I just don't understand how the wife helps make it a story," he said cautiously.
"Jesus, this is what I've been explaining. That scene we're filming tonight, where the wife is telling the detective that she's scared for him, that she loves him—"
"Charles, come on, move it!" Another voice through the door. "And wash your hands this time!"
Joe smiled distantly. "I can't believe you talked to Alice Dainard."
"I'm coming!… So when he investigates the zombie stuff, you FEEL something." He found the magazine and stood up, brushing his knees. "You don't want him to die because they love each other. That make sense?"
It was quiet for a moment.
"…Alice Dainard, that's awesome."
Charles shook his head. "You're impossible."
"CHARLES, NOW!"
"God mom, I'm COMING!" He took a deep breath, looked Joe in the eye. "Midnight, okay? Don't forget."
Joe wrenched his thoughts back to the present. Charles slapped the magazine into his hand and he held it against his chest.
"I won't."
In the Kaznyk living room, everything was chaos. Half-a-dozen siblings crowded around, lured close by the rising smell of shepherd's pie, and by the kitchen bench, Mrs Kaznyk argued with her very pretty eldest daughter about parties and the length of her tube top.
"It's not fair that I can't go to Wendy's," Jen said sulkily. "Every SINGLE person will be there except me!"
"Well, then every single person can tell you how it was."
Her mouth fell open in astonishment. "Mom—"
"It's your turn to babysit," Mrs Kaznyk said firmly.
"Why can't I switch with Charles?"
"Maybe because you crushed Charles' top hat. You ever think of that?" he replied from across the room, emerging from the hallway with Joe in tow.
"Oh really? Well guess what, we're switching," his sister hissed.
"Oh really? Cause guess what, no we're not." He imitated her voice as stupidly as possible.
"That's enough!" Mrs Kaznyk interrupted. "Charles, take this to the table. Benji, time for dinner." Suddenly, she noticed Joe standing at the back of the room. A smile swept across her face. "Hey Joe. Take a seat, we have lots of food," she said brightly.
He shook his head. "No, I'm okay, really. Thank you though."
Mr Kaznyk carried a stack of plates over to the table, waved at his middle two children. "Move the puzzle, get the napkins. Come on." The youngest got up from her position in front TV and clicked through a battered plastic photoviewer; another threw bits of cereal up into the air, catching them in his mouth. "Stop it!"
"See you tomorrow Charles," Joe said with a slight grin.
"Later days," his friend replied. Half a corncob was already propped between his teeth.
Mr Kaznyk saw him leaving, and added, "There's always a place for you here, Joe. You know that."
"Yes sir. Thank you."
As he walked out the door, Mr Kaznyk shared a worried glance with his wife. Their six children, however, were too busy to notice, shouting and arguing as they always did when they gathered round the dinner table.
Outside, it was blissfully quiet. No, not blissfully; sadly quiet. Joe missed that constant flood of activity, the hectic stream of emotions and chatter, even if… even if he knew it wasn't for him. Instead, I've got a quiet street. A dark house. An empty twilight town.
Which could be nice, in its own way… and, being an only child, he was kind of used to it. A song played inside his head, one he always thought of in these moments – a simple piano melody above aching strings. He could never remember where he'd heard it from.
Joe pushed his bike out of the Kaznyks' driveway and started the short trip back home; he lived barely fifty metres from Charles, at the other end of Crystal Lane. He rode past finely-mowed lawns and modest houses, past parked cars and dangling telephone wires. Shadows crept across the land, banished the by light that burned through shuttered windows. As the sun set, peeking between the steel mill's distant smokestacks, the scene became oddly beautiful. Grey haze shimmered and flowed, Lillian's lifeblood. The only reason people came to this particular part of the world.
The chain rattled beneath his feet. Pink clouds streaked against a greying sky.
The house was silent as he entered. Dark. Melancholy.
"Dad?" He glanced in the kitchen, saw nothing but wet dishcloths and a half-empty beer bottle. Moving back through the entrance hall, into the living room, still nothing.
"Dad?"
Just old armchairs, old bookshelves, empty vases. A winter coat on the rack. Good china hiding in oaken cupboards. Their TV glowed gently in the gloom.
"…that possibility with an announcement that, while it is not likely, the potential is there for the ultimate risk of a meltdown at the Three Mile Island atomic power plant outside Harrisburg, Pennsylvania…"
He walked through the living room, shoes scraping against the carpet, past his father's study, down the hallway with its framed pictures of old, sweet memories. Something twitched inside his deep brown eyes.
Suddenly, he heard someone sniff.
Joe peered around the bathroom door. Saw him sitting on the edge of the bath, head in his hands. Scrambled for something to say but before—
His father looked up, eyes wet. "Hey."
Joe took a sharp breath.
"I'll be out in a minute." Jack Lamb sniffed again, stood up, and pushed the door shut.
"…Robert Schakne reports from Washington. According to the government's top officials…"
Carol's Diner stood at the corner of Harwood and Fifth, right in the centre of town. Spotlights lit up fake granite walls, glinted off the damp night streets. A red neon sign in the window announced 10-cent slices of pizza. Inside, it was quiet as always. Fairy lights spiralled round the polished wooden banisters and scratched leather seats. An old pop song played from a distant jukebox.
Joe sat with his father at a corner table, which held a only a beer, a glass of milk, and grilled cheese sandwich which didn't taste of much.
People had always said that he looked more like his mother than his father. Jack's combed black hair, those serious eyes that stared out from beneath dark brows, the broad shoulders and tanned arms… they were at odds with the pale-faced boy that sat beside him. Even when dressed casually, as he was now, he still carried himself like a police officer.
Jackson Lamb took a brochure from his pocket and laid it on the table in front of his son.
"It's a six week program. Hands on training with college coaches." His voice was kind. "You'd like it. I know I did."
Joe looked at the brochure, unblinking. "I thought I was gonna have the summer for myself—"
"Things have obviously changed for us." His mouth twitched. "And it'd be good for you to spend some time with kids who don't run around with cameras and monster makeup."
Jack took a sip of his beer. Joe unfolded the brochure. 'Hewitt Baseball Camp is an intensive fundamental training program. We are not a team-oriented competitive environment. We teach fundamentals in a fun, disciplined, non-competitive atmosphere. After attending out program, young baseball players are better suited to…' Rows upon rows of smiling kids stared at him from the glossy paper.
"I have to help Charles finish his movie," Joe said insistently, looking at his father's face.
Jack gave an almost inaudible grunt. He swallowed, searching for somewhere to put his gaze. "I've got nothing against you friends, I like your friends," he began. "'Cept for Cary, who can't seem to stop lighting things on fire. But… you'd like it there. It's what we both need."
They sat together in silence. An uncomfortable silence, filled with twitches and little glances and things left unsaid. Hidden in Joe's palm was a silver locket.
His father saw it there, glinting silver, and turned away with a sudden burst of sadness.
