John Burley - The Absence of Mercy

Thomas rested his club against one of the porch’s support beams and sat down on the steps. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean,” Devon said, sitting next to him and looking out into the yard, “is that they have lost my respect. Especially my dad. I used to really look up to him, you know? Until I was about thirteen I used to think he was the total bomb. Smart guy, surgeon, hell of a golfer. I used to practically worship the ground he walked on.”

“So, what happened?”

“I guess I just started thinking for myself more. Questioning things. Challenging their point of view—and my own.”

“Yeah, that tends to happen.”

“Right. But you expect the people you admire to listen to you, to entertain the possibility that perhaps there’s more than one way to look at the world.”

Thomas shook his head. “You even discuss this stuff with your parents? Man, I gave up on mine a long time ago.”

“But that’s not the way it should be, T,” he said. “I mean, look at it this way: They’ve lived a lot longer than we have, right? They know the world is a complex place. So why shouldn’t they listen to us when we come to them for guidance, instead of telling us how we should be thinking, what we should be doing. It seems like the longer they live, the more closed-minded they become. They’re de-evolving, for Christ’s sake, and they want to take us along for the ride.” He used his club to tap mud from the sole of his left shoe. “We’re not looking for an instruction manual on the steps we should be taking to become just like them—that’s exactly what we’re afraid of. I mean , don’t they get that ?”

“I guess not,” Thomas replied. He was thinking about his own battle with his father earlier that evening—how their relationship had turned into less of a collaborative bond over the years and more of an enforcement of rules and regulations, his father’s decree being: These are the things I am afraid of, and therefore the following restrictions on your life will apply . “My mother understands me to some degree, but I don’t think my father has any idea who I really am.”

“And once you realize that your parents aren’t in a position to help you because they’ve stopped questioning things a long time ago, then you’re pretty much on your own,” Devon continued. “It’s intellectual abandonment. Are you telling me I shouldn’t be pissed-off about that?”

Thomas held up a hand. “Hey, I’m not telling you anything. Except that you sound like you’re in serious need of a beer.”

“Nah, I stopped drinking,” Devon said. “It was making me stupid. There comes a point when it’s easier to get drunk than to get mad. That’s a dangerous place, T. When it’s all you have, it’s important to hang on to your anger.”

“Oh yeah? Then why the big party?” Thomas pointed a thumb in the direction of the house full of drunken teenagers directly behind them.

“Oh, that.” Devon cast a dispassionate glance up the steps toward the back door. “It’ll provide a topic of conversation for when my folks get home. I have a responsibility to wake them up if I can. Lord knows I keep trying.”

They sat in silence at the foot of the steps, listening to Axl Rose belting out “Paradise City”—an oldy-but-goody—from the living room speakers just inside. Devon returned the clubs to the golf bag, clapped his friend on the back, and started up the steps toward the back door. “Plus,” he said, “I have to admit I enjoy the background noise.”

Thomas rose from his own seated position and ascended the steps behind him.

The party started breaking up around 1:30 A.M. Twenty minutes after Devon placed a call to the cab company, a line of checkered taxis were assembled in front of the house. A number of people called their parents for rides home, and the kids who were only mildly intoxicated set out on foot. A few people lingered—they always do—but by 2 A.M. most of the crowd had dispersed. Thomas, himself, had set out on foot around 1:45. He had a long walk and needed to save some of his energy for shimmying back up the rope into his bedroom.

Bret Graham bid good night to Cynthia Castleberry. Her hand touched his arm one last time, and he placed a delicate kiss on her right cheek. “Call me,” he said, placing a slip of paper with his phone number into her soft palm, and he thought this time she would.

Devon, who was ready for the place to clear out, began cleaning up the kitchen. That was enough to make even the die-hard partiers realize the time had come for them to go. The art of attending a good party, of course, was to linger right up until the cleanup begins, and then to get the hell out of there before you wound up with a garbage bag in your hands. There was a fine line between being part of the problem and being part of the solution, and it was important to determine which side of the line you wanted to end up on at 2 A.M. Most people picked the former.

Brian Fowler and Monica Dressler were among the last people to set out on foot for home. They exited the community, turned right, and continued along Powells Lane to the north, talking and joking about the party. Ernie Samper had been totally shit-faced by the end of the evening and wound up giving a fairly decent reenactment of Jim Carrey’s karaoke performance of “Somebody to Love” from The Cable Guy . Toward the end of the song, Ernie had been pelted in the side of the head with a spinach-dip-laden cracker, which had started a brief but rather messy food fight. Around that time, Devon had started calling for the cabs.

“ Don’t yoou want somebody to loovvve? ” Monica now sang, as Brian gesticulated spastically to the imaginary music.

“Yeah, baby. Summer of luuuvvvv!” he proclaimed into the night. Somewhere nearby, a dog began to howl, which sent them both pealing off into laughter.

“Watch out for that spinach dip,” Monica warned.

“Incoming!” Brian yelled. He ducked his head and ran forward along the street, crouched at the waist. Monica laughed. The sound came out as a powerful snort, and she covered her mouth with her hands.

“Captain Pig at six o’clock, Commander!” Brian snapped to attention, saluting an imaginary officer.

“Shut up,” Monica admonished him, trying to sound stern. She couldn’t hold it together, though, and another snort escaped her.

“The swine approaches, Commander!” Brian said. “Shall we deploy the slop-guns?”

“You’d better shut up, Fowler,” she said, and this time he did. One shouldn’t call a girl a pig more than twice, even in jest. At sixteen, he didn’t know much about women, but he did know that. He waited for her to catch up.

To change the subject, he said: “Hey, have you gotten started on your paper for Ms. Bradford’s class, yet?” They shared English together and had a book report due next Thursday. Brian hadn’t begun yet, and if his usual and customary strategy was to be followed, he probably wouldn’t begin the project until late Wednesday evening. An Incredibly Insightful and Comprehensively Developed Book Report on J. D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye, he planned to call it—or something of the sort. He paused for a moment: Catcher in the Rye ? Or was it The Catcher in the Rye ? He couldn’t remember, but a small detail like that might sink him if he wasn’t careful. He’d make that his first research question.

“…tomorrow.”

“What was that?” he asked.

“I said I’ve already put together an outline. I’m planning on working on the report tomorrow.”

Brian was impressed. “You made an outline?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “It’s part of the process. It helps me organize my thoughts. How do you write a paper?”