Todd Strasser - Blood on my hands

That’s disappointing, but still, I’m pretty sure that if his parents went to the police, there’s a record of a complaint. And the copies Griffen gave them of the threats. It all has to be there somewhere.

Griffen turns his head toward his house and straightens his leg again. “I better get going.”

“Okay.” I get up.

Griffen rises stiffly. I help him get the straps over his shoulder. For a moment we’re practically face-to-face. Again, I feel certain his is familiar.

“Have we ever seen each other before?” I ask.

He shakes his head and then walks off. But it’s still bothering me.

As much as Mr. Lamont wanted Slade to work in his drywall business after high school, some kind of military service came first. It was a family tradition, a duty, going back to the First World War.

After the initial two months of National Guard training, when we weren’t allowed to call each other, Slade and I would video chat a few times a week. He always tried to smile and be brave, but he wasn’t a good enough actor to get away with it. His sadness, homesickness, and fear of being sent overseas always came through.

There was one exception, one night in the summer when he really did seem excited. It began with his waking me up with a phone call around one in the morning. “Get on the computer,” he said when I answered.

“Why? Is something wrong? Are you okay?”

“Just do it! I have to talk to you.”

Still half asleep, I staggered to my computer and slumped into the chair. A few moments later Slade came on.

“You look wide awake,” he said with a smirk.

“You woke me up!” I tried to sound annoyed, but I was happy to see and speak to him, even if it was on the jumpy Internet connection.

“I know what I want to do!” he announced excitedly. “I’m going to be a commercial fisherman.”

“Are you high?”

“No! I’m serious! I mean, I know I have to work with my dad when I get back, but someday that’s what I’m going to be.”

Since Slade and his dad loved to fish, it wasn’t a totally off-the-wall idea. But it came pretty close. “Where did you come up with this?” I asked.

He told me about a guy named Rick he’d met that night in a bar near Fort Benning. Rick was in another National Guard unit and his family ran a fishing trawler out of Montauk Point on Long Island. “It was amazing, Cal. He talked about what he and his family have been doing for generations, and showed me some pictures and it was like, ‘Hey! This is it! This is what I’ve been waiting for! It’s what I’ve always wanted to do!’ You know what I’m saying? Like after all this time of feeling like there was something else out there, but I didn’t know what it was. Well, now I know!”

I thought of asking exactly how he intended to be a commercial fisherman in Soundview, or what would become of the drywall business, but it was such a joy to hear him sound excited that I couldn’t rain on his parade. So I said, “That’s great, Slade. And it sounds like you’ve found a friend, too.”

I had no way of knowing that was the wrong thing to say. On the computer screen the smile left Slade’s face and his voice immediately became subdued. “Well, yeah, except Rick’s unit’s been called up. They’re being sent overseas to do support work for the troops. He leaves next month.” He was quiet for a moment and I wanted to kick myself, until I thought of something that really scared me.

“Slade, do… you think they may call up your unit, too?”

“Right now I’d say the chances are about sixty-forty,” he answered glumly.

I felt my body clench. “If you go, how long?”

“At least a year. But a lot of guys are being stop-lossed and wind up doing two tours.”

That would be two years. I couldn’t imagine him being away for so long. I’d be almost twenty by the time he came home. It felt like an impossibly long time. And what if he was injured or killed?

We talked a little longer, then said good-bye. I went back to bed but couldn’t fall asleep. I was convinced that commercial fishing was just a whim. But what if he was sent overseas? Then what?

Monday 5:30 P.M.

IT’S DINNERTIME AND I’m in a convenience store with a craving for Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream. The place is nearly empty, but the bright lights are unnerving. There’s no place to hide in here. Cameras are mounted on the walls, and up in the corner is one of those big convex mirrors so the man behind the counter can watch. I feel like some kind of nocturnal creature that’s been thrust suddenly into the sunlight.

I glance at the counter, where the clerk is watching a small TV. I’m starving and can’t wait to eat, but also afraid to go up to the checkout, where yet another stranger will have an opportunity to look at my face. But I can’t dawdle, as that will also attract his attention. I pick out a frosty container and head for the front.

As I get close to the cash register, I become aware of the sound of the television. A female voice reporting: “In a news conference today, Soundview Police Chief Samuel Jenkins said the police still want to speak to Callie Carson in connection with the murder two nights ago of seventeen-year-old Katherine Remington-Day. While declining to say whether Ms. Carson is a suspect in the case, the police chief warned local citizens not to help her hide.”

The scene shifts to a podium with several microphones, where Chief Jenkins stands. He’s a heavyset man, almost bald on top except for some long thick strands of black hair combed straight back and held in place with gel. “We believe that Ms. Carson is still in the area. She needs food and a place to stay, so it stands to reason that someone may be sheltering her. If that’s true, people need to be aware that they may be charged with rendering criminal assistance if Ms. Carson is implicated in this crime.”

The scene shifts back to the TV studio and the blonde anchorwoman. In one corner of the screen is a big grainy gray blowup of my face from the yearbook. “Ms. Carson is about five feet tall and weighs around a hundred pounds. If you think you’ve seen her, the police have provided a phone number-”

Seeing that photo, and hearing again that I’m wanted, gives me a physical jolt. Even though hardly a second passes when I don’t worry about who might be looking at me, that photo on TV kicks it all up a notch.

I’m so fixated on the TV that I don’t realize that the man at the cash register has stopped watching. He’s looking at me curiously, as if it’s just struck him that I’m roughly the same height and weight as this person the police are looking for. I freeze, caught between opposing impulses to drop the ice cream and run and to pay as fast as I can and then run. Both are bad ideas. Instead, I place the container on the counter, begin searching in my pockets for money, and say, “Isn’t that weird? I mean, five feet tall and a hundred pounds? That’s the same as me. Well, I hope they find her, you know?”

The man blinks, then nods, takes my money, and makes change. “You want a bag for that?”

“Yeah, sure, and maybe a couple of napkins and a plastic spoon?”

“You got it.”

A moment later I’m out on the sidewalk, walking away quickly but hopefully not so fast that it’s noticeable. Down the block is a small park, where I settle onto a bench set close to some trees and start spooning delicious ice cream into my mouth and wondering which is more unbelievable-that I said what I said to the man behind the counter or that it seemed to work.

I have to admit that I’m pretty pleased with myself, although it does make me wonder where this talent for subterfuge comes from. When did I learn to be so devious?