Doppelganger (16 page)

I thought for a second. “He was good to his sister,” I said. “I think he really loved her.”

I turned to look down at Amber. Her eyes closed all of a sudden, but the tears came out anyway. She wiped them with her sleeve, and we turned away.

We kept the flashlight going until we got up on the tracks. Then we switched it off and walked the rest of the way back in the dark. With every step, I felt new relief. I'd finally buried Chris and didn't have to worry anymore about either of us being found out. Everything would be okay. That's what I thought, anyway, as Amber and I headed down the tracks side by side, still holding hands, close under the stars.

It was around ten o'clock when we got back to Amber's car. She opened the trunk, and I laid the shovel down in it. Clumps of dirt still clung to its blade.

For a minute we just stood there gazing down at the shovel, the trunk's light illuminating our faces from below. Then we looked at each other.

“I don't want to go home,” she said. “Not yet.”

“Me neither.”

There was another long pause.

“I don't know. We could get some coffee, I guess,” she said at last.

“That's probably not a good idea,” I said. “I mean, look at us.”

Even in the dim light of the trunk I could see both of us were filthy, with dirt on our hands and on our pants and shoes.

“Hey,” I said, “why don't you teach me how to drive? I mean, Chris knew how. So I should too, right?”

“Sure,” she said. “It's not that hard.”

She was right. Once I got used to knowing how hard to hit the gas and the brakes, it was actually pretty fun. We spent the next two hours driving the roads around Bakersville, laughing and having a good time. I don't know, maybe we shouldn't have. I mean, I suppose it wasn't too respectful, considering what we'd been doing earlier. But it felt good to laugh and fool around a bit and forget about Chris for a while.

By the time she dropped me off, it was midnight. Barry's car was parked in the driveway. He must have come home and passed out—I couldn't see any lights on in the house.

“We have to go visit my grandmother this weekend,” she said. “I won't be back until Sunday night.”

“I'll see you Monday, then,” I said. She leaned toward me, and I kissed her. “Thanks,” I said, “for everything.”

She nodded, and I got out and watched her drive away.

I tried to let myself in as quietly as I could, but as soon as I opened the door, Poppy tore past me with a yelp and disappeared around the corner of the house into the backyard. Standing in the doorway, I knew something was wrong. By now it was a familiar feeling, only this time it was worse than all the other times combined. I mean, I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight as I went in and closed the door behind me. The only light came from over the sink in the kitchen, and the odor of fresh cigarette smoke lay heavy in the house, mingled with the smell of booze.

I was about to call out when I heard a sort of choking noise coming from the kitchen, followed by the sound of a glass being smacked onto the table. I'd heard that sound before—Barry was drinking.

I started to head for my room, when all of a sudden I froze.

I still don't know why I stopped or why I turned around and went into the kitchen. Maybe it was anger. I was in kind of a weird mood after having buried Chris. And all of a sudden, I realized I was fed up with Barry doing nothing but sitting around getting a load on. Even if he never touched Echo again, I suddenly felt like it wasn't good enough. I mean, Chris was dead. And now it was like Barry was dying too. Slowly, bit by bit, he was killing himself, and even though I didn't have to stick around and watch, Echo did. It wasn't fair to her.

Maybe I just wanted to see him sitting there at the table, wallowing in his misery, drunk and pathetic.

If that's what I'd wanted, then that's what I got. And then some.

He was at the table, all right, in his usual spot, sitting there in the darkened room with his favorite bottle, his favorite glass, his favorite ashtray with a burning cigarette resting on its edge—all the accessories of his screwed-up life gathered around him. And there was one other thing there besides.

I didn't notice the gun until I'd moved farther into the kitchen, over to the counter. It was the pistol I'd seen in his drawer that first morning. He was resting it in his left hand up against his head, the barrel pointing at the ceiling, like he was holding himself up with it or something. So much for him killing himself slowly.

He didn't notice me at first, but when he did, he started, and for a second I was afraid he might shoot me. But the gun hardly moved.

He didn't say anything. He just looked away, reached down to pick up his cigarette, and took a drag. I could tell he was pretty drunk, more than usual. His arm moved in that herky-jerky sort of way, as if it were some robot arm operated by remote control.

“Hey,” I said.

“Go to bed,” he growled.

I didn't move. For a minute I just watched him, trying to figure out how to get us all out of this and get him safely to bed, which was kind of twisted, considering I'd tried to kill him a week earlier.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He shook his head and started laughing.

“What am I doing? That's a good question,” he said. He was slurring his words pretty badly. “I don't know. I don't fucking know. I thought I was doing the right things—job, wife, kids.” He paused. “But what do I have? That's the real question, after all. And you know what the answer is? I'll tell you what the goddam answer is, Chris. Nothing. I've got nothing, Chris. No wife—she left me. No kids—they hate me. No job—”

“You got fired?” I blurted out.

“That bastard, Mitch,” he said.

He splashed some more whiskey into his glass and downed it, smacking the glass back on the table even harder this time. I wondered why it didn't break.

“So you're going to kill yourself—” I started to say.

“Go to bed.”

“—is that what you're going to do?”

“I said go to bed!” he hollered.

“Is everything okay?”

I whirled around to see Echo standing in the kitchen doorway all sleepy eyed and husky voiced. I went over to her. I didn't want her to come in and see Barry at the table with the gun. Heck, I didn't want her to be
around
Barry with the gun.

“Go back to sleep,” I whispered, crouching down in front of her.

“What's wrong with Daddy?” she asked. It was funny—I'd never heard her call him that before.

“He's just a little drunk, that's all,” I said. “Don't worry. Everything will be okay. Just go back to sleep.”

“You're all dirty,” she said, looking me over.

“A little bit,” I said. “Just go back to bed, okay? Please, Echo.”

She nodded slowly, then went back into her bedroom and shut the door.

I headed into the kitchen and sat down across from Barry at the table. I don't know why, but all of a sudden I wasn't scared anymore. He glanced up, squinting his eyes at me like I was far away. I could tell he didn't want me there. He started tapping the gun against his head.

“So you're really going to do this?” I said. “Blow your brains out with her in the next room? You really hate her that much?”

“She won't care,” he said. “And neither will you, so fuck off.” He waved the gun vaguely in my direction for a second. Then he took one last drag from his cigarette and stubbed it out. “You want to talk about hate, talk about yourself,” he said.

“I think you should give me the gun.”

“I want to hear you say it,” he muttered, this time
pointing the gun straight at me. “I want you to tell me you hate me.”

“No,” I whispered.

“Say it!” he cried. “I know you do. All of you do!”

I didn't say anything. I wasn't going to give him what he wanted. Besides, seeing him there, I suddenly realized I didn't hate him. Not anymore. He was like Chris. Or Chris was like him. Both of them just made me sad.

He put the gun down onto the table but kept his hand on it, and then brought the other hand up to cover his eyes.

“Why wouldn't you,” he said.

He kept his hand over his eyes. Then his body began to shake. Not much, just a little bit, rocking up and down. That's when I realized he was crying. A long moan escaped him. It was a terrible sound, even worse than his yelling.

I didn't say anything for a while. I just let him finish. The only thing I did was reach across the table and slowly pull the gun out from under his hand, and he let me.

“It doesn't have to be this way,” I said at last.

“It's too late,” he croaked.

“They'll forgive you,” I said. “Echo, Mom, both of them will. They want to.”

“What about you?” he whispered.

“It's over,” I said. “Just go to bed. We'll figure it out in the morning.”

I got up, went around the table, and helped him up. He started to lean on me, then pulled me close to him and put his arms around me. He squeezed me so tight for a second, I could hardly breathe. He just held on to me for a minute, his feet unsteady, so that we both swayed. I let him hold on. Before he let go, he whispered in my ear.

“I'm sorry.”

I didn't say anything. I just guided him down the hallway to his room, helped him take his clothes off, and put him to bed.

 

I got up early the next morning. Echo and Barry were both still sleeping. I looked out the window. Most of the leaves had fallen from the trees, but the sky was clear and it looked like it was going to be a nice day. It was Saturday, and the street was quiet.

I dressed and went into the kitchen. The first thing I did was take all the booze in the house—all the beer in the fridge, all the bottles in the cabinet—and pour it down the sink. Then I put all the empties in a bag and left it by the sliding glass door. I wanted him to see it before I took it out to the garbage. After that I waited.

Echo got up first. She came into the kitchen in her pajamas and poured each of us a bowl of cereal while I put some coffee on. Then Barry shuffled into the kitchen. He was all hungover and looked like crap, but when he glanced at me, I could tell he remembered last night—well enough, at least. I wondered if he'd ask me about the gun. I'd kept it after putting him to bed and stashed it under my mattress. I wasn't going to give it back, not unless he asked.

He plopped down at the table and for a minute just sat there looking a little lost. I got up and brought him a cup of coffee, then went back to my breakfast. He took a sip, then lit a cigarette. The three of us sat there at the table together, silent.

The rest of the day was just as quiet. Echo and I went about our business. Barry sat at the table most of the
morning, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. In the afternoon he went out into the backyard and finished raking up the leaves. At one point I went to the sliding glass door to watch, and when I looked down, Echo was next to me. He moved slower this time than the last time I'd watched him work, less furious. Maybe he was still hungover. Maybe it was something else.

“Not all the leaves have fallen,” Echo said, pointing to the big tree.

“He'll get the rest later.”

“Maybe we should help him,” she said, but neither of us went out.

Things that day weren't much different than they'd been for the last week, but there was the slightest change, like a subtle shift in the breeze. I felt it later that afternoon when Barry left for a while and came back with dinner from some chicken place, without any beer. And instead of piling up his plate and heading for the living room, he stayed and ate with us. None of us really said much of anything, but it didn't matter.

He joined us the next morning at breakfast.

“So what do you want to do?” he asked, finishing his cigarette.

Echo and I looked up and then glanced at each other. I didn't know what he meant; neither did Echo.

“Echo,” he said, “you decide.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“What do you want to do?” he repeated. “It's Sunday. There must be something you'd like to do.”

She shrugged. “Can we go to the movies?” she said finally.

“All right,” he said. “This afternoon. We'll go to a matinee. What do you think, Chris?” He looked over at me. It was weird, like he wanted my approval or something.

“Sounds good,” I said.

“Can Mom come too?” Echo whispered.

Barry's face dropped for a second. “If she wants,” he said.

“I'll ask her,” I offered. I went over and picked up the phone.

“Chris,” Barry barked. I looked back at him. “Don't call now. It's early,” he said, lowering his voice.

I nodded and put the phone down.

“And don't tell her I got fired. Please.”

I called her later that morning at her sister's. To my surprise, she agreed to join us at the mall where the theater was.

It was pretty tense when we first met up, like we were all strangers. It's funny how when you haven't seen somebody for a while—even if it's just been a couple of weeks—they can look so different. Sheila looked better—more like that picture hanging in the hallway—like she was younger or something. She seemed to feel the same way about me.

“You look different, Chris,” she said, giving me a hug. “I don't know what it is. There's just something different about you.”

It made me kind of nervous when she said it, but I shrugged it off.

“So do you,” I said.

Barry and Sheila didn't say much, but I noticed they kept looking at each other, though they pretended not to. Only Echo was at ease, laughing and jabbering away as we
stood in line for the movie. It was some kid's movie. All her friends had seen it, and it almost seemed like she'd seen it before too. She told us half the story before we even sat down.

After the movie Sheila went to say good-bye, but Barry convinced her to join us in the food court for ice cream. It was only when we all sat down that I realized today was the most time we'd ever spent together, all of us at once. I also realized that the itching had stopped and that I hadn't felt it since Friday, since laying Chris to rest.

A strange feeling came over me. I didn't know what it was at first, but as we finished up our ice cream and headed for our separate cars, I realized it had to be what people call hope.