The Night of the Parents, Page 2

CHAPTER TWO

  Taylor's words, and the obvious fact that something terrible is happening, finally register in my mind when the teen girl runs past us screaming. Her father the bald man chases after her, waving the bloody tire iron over his head the same way the Keystone Cops used to wave their nightsticks in those ancient silent movies.

  "Come back here you little bitch!" he bellows.

  I push Lynda back and grab her by the wrist the same way Taylor did. "Come on!" I shout. I lead my two younger siblings down the block to an alley between an apartment building and a pet store. The three of us duck behind a foul smelling metal dumpster.

  "Okay," I whisper to Taylor. "Tell me what happened."

  Taylor pauses again to catch his breath and compose himself. Despite his bloody nose he doesn't seem to be in danger of crying. Lynda, on the other hand, is still sobbing.

  "Calm down Lynda," I tell her.

  Lynda sits on the filthy ground and covers her face with her hands.

  "Well Taylor?"

  Taylor takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Lynda and I were having a snack in the kitchen. Mom made Marky some hot tea for his sore throat and took it upstairs to him. All of a sudden I heard Mom yelling. I couldn't make out what she was saying -- I thought maybe she spilled the tea and was cursing or something. Then I heard Marky shout 'Get off me! What the hell's the matter with you?' Lynda and I started to run upstairs to see what was going on. That's . . . that's when Dad came home."

  Taylor pauses, looks down at the ground to avoid my eyes, and shakes his head.

  "Then what happened?"

  When Taylor looks up at me again tears are streaming down his face.

  "Dad looked up at us, slammed the door, and then started running towards us. He looked really mad. We got scared and ran to Marky's room. When we got there Mom was sitting on the floor holding her head and Marky was standing over her. We ran to Marky and hid behind him. Dad ran in and he didn't even stop to ask Mom if she was okay. He just charged at Marky and started choking him. I grabbed one of his arms and tried to make him let go, but I couldn't, so I stomped on his foot. He elbowed me in the face, then Marky punched him and knocked him out. I thought it was over, but them Mom got up and lunged at Marky and started slapping and scratching him. He grabbed her by the wrists and shouted 'Taylor! Lynda! Get out of here! Now!' We ran downstairs and grabbed our coats and ran."

  I hear an ambulance's siren, and then a girl screaming. The same girl as before?

  "You two wait here," I tell my siblings. "I'll be right back."

  "Where you going?" Taylor asks.

  "I'm going back out there to look around."

  "No! Don't!" Lynda cries, grabbing my arm.

  "It's okay. I'll be all right."

  Taylor sits down next to Lynda and puts his arm around her. She let's go of me and I step out from behind the dumpster. Keeping close to the wall, I creep over to the alley entrance, poke my head out and glance up and down the street. The teen boy is lying face down on the sidewalk with blood flowing from his head. There's no sign of the bald man. Further down the block a short African American man holding a baseball bat slowly walks away from an unconscious, flat on his back African American boy of about ten. His son?

  I duck back into the alley and retreat to the dumpster.

  "Well?" Taylor asks, wide-eyed with fear.

  "Did you see that bald guy going psycho with the tire iron out there?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well I think the kid he clobbered might be dead. If he's not he's hurt really bad."

  Taylor winces.

  "And he's not the only one. There's a little boy lying on the ground out there too, a boy about Lynda's age. I think this guy out there hit him with a baseball bat."

  "What the hell is happening?"

  "I don't know. A terrorist attack maybe. Maybe someone put LSD in the water supply. Or maybe it's an epidemic of insanity or something.

  "What are we gonna do?" Lynda squeaks.

  There's only one thing we can do. "There's a youth center a few blocks from here. I go there sometimes after school. We can go there. The guy who runs it is really cool. He'll let us hide there."

  "What if he's gone crazy too?"

  "We have to chance it. We can't stay here all night. Besides, I've never seen Gus -- that's the guy -- get violent with anyone. I've never even seen him lose his temper. I don't think he could hurt anyone even if he wanted to -- not even if he took LSD."

  Taylor takes a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and wipes his bloody nose. "How do we keep from getting killed on the way there?"

  "Run fast. Too bad we don't have any weapons." I peer around the side of the dumpster at the alley entrance. There's no one there. I stand up quickly and lift the dumpster lid, hoping to find something I can use as a weapon. But despite its foul smell the dumpster is empty. I lower the lid and duck down again.

  "Nothing! Damn!"

  "What about in your backpack?" Taylor whispers.

  "There's nothing in there. Just my schoolbooks and a few pens."

  "You can stab someone with a pen."

  "Not deep enough to do any good."

  "We should stay here," Lynda pleads. "Maybe whatever's happening will be over soon."

  Somewhere out on the street a woman shouts "Connie! Connie!" Another siren wails. For a moment I wonder if Lynda might be right about staying put. But no -- we have to get indoors. If we stay here in this alley it's only a matter of time before some psycho finds us.

  Taylor and Lynda eye me anxiously, waiting for my decision. It's funny how they're all of a sudden defering to me. They certainly never have before. I guess book smarts don't matter much in a life and death situation. What matters is that I'm older and bigger.

  "No," I say. "We can't stay here. We're going to the youth center. It's only four blocks from here, right on the corner of Albermarle and Hayes. We can get there in minutes if we run."

  Lynda starts to sob again.

  "Lynda, I need you go get a grip, okay? We're going to be all right."

  "No we're not."

  Great. She's going to be a big help.

  "Okay, here's the plan. We're going to run down the street together. If anyone tries to mess with us I'll deal with him. You two keep running. Taylor, there's a barred window on the Albemarle side of the center, next to the door. When you get there, jump up and see if you can see Gus. He's a tall skinny black guy with greying hair. He usually wears sweatpants and sweatshirts. If you see him and he looks okay, go inside, tell him you're Caril's brother, and tell him what's happened. If you don't see him, knock on the door anyway. No -- have Lynda knock on the door. You stay at the window and watch. If he's there he'll answer."

  I can tell by Taylor's face that he doesn't like my plan.

  "What if he's not there?"

  "He should be. He's always there this time of day."

  "What if he isn't? Or what if he's there and he looks crazy?"

  I consider a moment. "There's a church around the corner from the center, on Hayes Street. Turn right on Hayes. It's right on the next corner. See if someone there can help you. It's a church so . . . God should protect you there.

  It's kind of stupid of me to bring God into it, since I never go to church anymore, but it's the only thing I can think of to say that's even remotely comforting.

  Taylor still looks doubtful. "Yeah. Right."

  "Wait," Lynda says, "You have your cell phone. Why don't you call the youth center first?"

  "I don't have the number. Gus doesn't give it out."

  "Then he's not gonna be there. People who don't give out their phone numbers are never there when you need them."

  This is no time for philosophizing. "Stand up!" I command.

  My siblings reluctantly rise to their feet.

  "I'll go out there and check to see if the coast is clear. If it is I'll signal you like this." I make
a beckoning motion with my hand. "You join me and we'll run to the youth center together. Okay?"

  "Okay," Taylor says. Lynda just nods.

  "Okay. Wait here."

  I creep back to the alley entrance. Once again I poke my head out and glance up and down the street. Both boys are still stretched out on the street, but I don't see anyone else. Another car speeds by. I signal for Taylor and Lynda to join me and take them each by the hand.

  "Run!" I shout.

  We run down Albemarle Road, past the two dead kids, past ground floor apartment windows with high-pitched screams emanating from them. At the first corner we stop for a red light. An ambulance with its turret lights on and its sirens blasting shoots down the street, followed by one of those ridiculous looking little "Smart" cars that I can clearly see is being driven by a child, a brown-haired girl of maybe thirteen. She looks frantic. No doubt she's trying to escape some crazed adult.

  "Holy shit!" Taylor gasps.

  I glance behind me to see if anyone's coming up behind us. Sure enough, a panting, lean-bodied Asian woman wearing a very clean blue jogging suit runs up to us clutching a kitchen knife in her right hand. I consider ordering Taylor and Lynda to run, but the light is still red and too many cars are speeding down McAllister Street. I block the woman's path and raise my hands defensively, but the woman doesn't attack. She just stops and stares at me.

  "You go to her school," she says accusingly. "Where's June?"

  "I don't know," I answer quickly. "Honest." I look over my shoulder at the traffic light just as red gives way to green. Thankfully the traffic actually comes to a halt. I grab Taylor's and Lynda's hands again. "Go!"

  We bolt across the street. On the other side I look over my shoulder one more time. The woman in the jogging suit isn't chasing us. She's storming down McAllister Street, hunting for June.

  We keep running. Halfway down the next block a very thin man is down on all fours on the sidewalk, vomiting. A stocky, baby-faced boy of about fourteen is standing over him, looking distraught.

  "I didn't want to do that Dad!" the boy cries. "I had no choice! You made me!"

  We make it to the youth center without encountering anyone else. I look through the barred window and there's Gus by the weight rack lifting thirty pound dumbells over his head. I pull Taylor and Lynda to the door, open it, and push them inside.

  "Hey Smiley," Gus greets me. That's his sarcastic nickname for me since I rarely smile. I shut the door behind me and lock it.

  Gus lowers the dumbells and places them back on the rack. "Any reason why you locked that door?"

  "Yeah," I answer, panting. "The whole world's gone crazy!" I take off my backpack and toss it on the weightlifting bench. As always, the place has a slightly musty smell. The dusty radio on the small shelf over the weight rack is playing an oldies tune -- Buddy Holly's "Rave On".

  "The world's been crazy for as long as I can remember," Gus says. "But I've always kept that door unlocked until closing."

  "No, I mean it's really gone crazy." I point Taylor and Lynda towards the two beat up couches in the TV area to my left. "Go sit over there," I order them. Still in scared mode, they obey without question. One of the youth center regulars, a tall, pale, black-haired girl of about sixteen named Madison, is already seated on one of the couches, watching a program on the ancient television -- a sitcom, judging from the laughtrack. She doesn't even look up as Taylor and Lynda join her on the couch.

  "Who are those two?" Gus asks, tilting his head in my siblings' direction.

  "Taylor and Lynda, my brother and sister. I know they're not registered, but is it okay if they stay here for a while?"

  I don't know where Gus gets the funds to run the youth center, but he never charges kids. The only thing he asks for -- the only thing he demands -- is a face to face meeting with a parent and a signed waiver freeing him from any and all liabilities. Mom actually provided him with both -- but only because I told her I needed somewhere to go where I could exercise and "clear my mind".

  Gus eyes Taylor suspiciously. "That depends. Why does your brother have a bloody nose?"

  "Because my Dad elbowed him in the face."

  "Why the hell did he do that?"

  "Because Taylor tried to stop him from killing my older brother. Something weird is going on. People -- adults -- are attacking kids. I saw it happen twice on my way here. A man bashed a kid's head in with a tire iron, and another man clubbed a kid with a baseball bat. I think both kids are dead. People are driving crazy too. It's like . . . it's like someone put LSD in the water or something."

  Gus looks skeptical. "You're not trying to play me are you?"

  That pisses me off. "No, of course not. Why would I do that?"

  "People are always trying to play me Smiley."

  True. Gus is no fool, but he's basically a soft touch. Especially with kids. And so kids are always trying to get over on him.

  "If I was playing you my brother's nose wouldn't be bleeding," I say.

  "Just because somebody popped him doesn't mean the whole world's gone nuts."

  I'm about to ask him if he's calling me a liar when I'm distracted by the sound of heavy breathing to my right, low down near the ground. I look down and see Jobie doing push ups between the soda machine and the makeshift boxing ring. He must be almost finished because he's grimacing and pushing himself up very slowly.

  "Hey Jobie," I greet him.

  Jobie grunts through one last push up and then rises to his knees. He looks up at me but doesn't return my greeting. Jobie's kind of short for a fourteen-year-old, and slightly built even though he works out a lot. We've known each other since the sixth grade, but pretty much the only time we talk is when we're here in the center, and even then we don't say much to each other. I'll be honest -- I care about him a lot more than he cares about me. But on days when he's in a good mood, more talkative than usual, I'm convinced that we'll eventually become real friends. We should, because like I said, we have a lot in common. We're both poor students. We're both terrible at sports. And we both have lousy relationships with our fathers. In fact, Jobie barely knows his. His dad took off when he was only three. His mom stayed, but considering her alcoholism, I'm not sure that's such a plus.

  "What's going on? Is something wrong?" Madison asks, slinking towards us. It's a wonder she can move at all, her jeans are so tight. I've never really liked Madison. She's pretty and she knows it, and the only reason she hangs out at the youth center is to hook up with boys. Okay, a lot of times the only reason I hang out at the center is to be with Jobie, but the difference is there are other times when I go there to escape my family.

  "Something's happening," I tell her. "I think terrorists have put something in the water supply. People are going nuts. My dad attacked my older brother. Two kids were beaten to death out on the street."

  Madison smooths her hair back with her hand. "Wow."

  Suddenly there are several loud knocks on the door. Gus goes to open it.

  "Wait -- don't open it!" I plead.

  "If what you say is true, it might be some injured kid who needs help."

  Gus might be getting on in years, but he's a big man and a former boxer. I know he can handle himself. Still, I back up towards the TV area and motion for Taylor and Lynda to duck down out of sight. Again they obey me without hesitating.

  Gus unlocks the door and opens it. And it turns out he was right, it is a kid who needs help. Really needs help. Standing in the doorway is an Asian girl of about my age, dressed only in jeans and a blood soaked blouse -- no coat, no shoes, no socks. There are deep cuts on her forearms. Pressing a hand to her chest, she takes two steps forward and collapses into Gus's arms. Gus pulls her back from the door and kicks it closed with his foot. "Lock that!" he shouts at Jobie.

  Jobie runs up to the door and relocks it.

  "Stay down!" I order Taylor and Lynda, without taking my eyes
off the battered girl. I don't want my sibs to see all the blood and freak out, but Gus carries the poor girl to the unoccupied couch right across from them, so they get an eyeful anyway. Horrified, they cringe and look away.

  "What happened to you?" Gus asks the poor girl. Jobie, Madison and I gather behind him.

  "My Mom," the girl gasps. "She . . . she stabbed me."

  "There? Where you're pressing?"

  The girl nods. Gus whips off his sweatshirt and balls it up. "Move your hand."

  The girl takes her hand away from her chest. Gus presses his sweatshirt to the wound. "Press there!" he commands Jobie. Despite all the gore, Jobie takes over for him without flinching. "Turn off that TV Madison! Smiley, turn off that radio!"

  Madison and I do as we're told.

  "I hope Nine-One-One isn't too backed up," Gus says, unclipping his cell phone from his sweatpants. I guess he believes me now.

  "Why'd she do it?" Madison asks the girl.

  "No, don't talk," I advise her. "Save your breath."

  "I was at a friend's house," the girl wheezes. "Her dad came home and started beating her up. I tried to stop him but he was too big. I ran outside and tried to call Nine-One-One on my cell but I couldn't get through. Then my mom came running up the block . . . "

  The girl coughs up blood, just like in the movies. And for some reason seeing the blood trickle down the sides of her mouth makes me recall the crazed Asian woman with the kitchen knife.

  "Oh my God. Are you -- is your name June?"

  The girl nods again.

  "I . . . I met your mom."

  The girl opens her mouth to speak, but this time no words come out. She tries to raise her bloody hand but only manages to lift it a few inches before lowering it to her side again. Her eyes roll back, and she exhales for the last time.

  "Oh shit!" Jobie says, still pressing down with the balled up sweatshirt.

  "No answer," Gus says. "Damn."

  "I think she's dead," Madison tells him.

  Gus reaches down with his free hand and checks June's pulse at the wrist. He sighs. "Yeah, she's dead. But we still have to get someone here. The paramedics or the cops, to make it official."

  Jobie stops pressing and steps back from the couch. Lynda, her back to the corpse, sobs. Taylor puts an arm around her shoulders again.

  Suddenly I think of home.

  "God, I wonder who won."

  "What?" Jobie asks, giving me an annoyed look.

  "I wonder who won. My dad or my older brother."

  Gus tries Nine-One-One again but still can't get through. He lowers the phone, dials again, waits. Then:

  "Maya, it's Gus. Is everything okay there?" Pause. "Are Ruby and Jolene with you?" Pause. "Cause things are going crazy here in the city. People are killing kids -- even their own kids. I don't know why. Maybe terrorists put something in the water." Pause. "You sure they're -- shit! What was that? What's going on? Maya? Maya?"

  Outside another emergency vehicle with a blasting siren speeds by, and then someone -- it sounds like a kid -- screams.

  "Maya!?"

  I know from overhearing some of Gus's previous phone calls that Maya is his ex-wife. I assume that Ruby and Jolene are his daughters. Or maybe one's his daughter and one's his granddaughter. He's definitely old enough to be a grandfather. Come to think of it, there are two framed photos on his small cluttered desk -- one showing an African American woman in her mid to late twenties, the other showing an African American girl of about six or seven. Yeah, they must be his daughter and granddaughter.

  "Dammit!"

  Gus looks really scared. I'm afraid to ask, but I have to. "Does it sound like someone's being murdered?"

  Gus ignores me. He presses "end", then redials.

  "Well?" Madison asks impatently, hands on her hips.

  Raising his phone to his ear again, Gus reaches down with his other hand and closes the dead girl's eyes. "She said everything was okay. Then in the background I heard these thudding sounds, and my granddaughter screaming. She said 'Hold on', and it sounded like she was running. Then she shouted 'Stop it Jolene! Stop it!' That's when we got cut off."

  "Holy shit," Jobie mutters.

  Madison takes out her cell phone and dials.

  A scary thought occurs to me. "Where do your daughter and granddaughter live?" I ask Gus.

  "What difference does that make?"

  "If they live here in the city then maybe this is only happening here. If they live far away, then maybe this is happening everywhere."

  "No answer. Shit." Gus clips his cell phone to his waistband again.

  "No answer at my place either," Madison says.

  "Where do they live?" I repeat.

  "What? In the suburbs. In Collingswood."

  "That's about twenty miles from here. Then it's not just happening here in the city. What if it's happening everywhere?"

  "If it's happening everywhere it can't be a terrorist attack," Madison says. "How can terrorists poison all the water supplies?"

  "Maybe it's Judgment Day," Lynda whispers, just loud enough to be heard.

  "Judgment Day my ass," Jobie responds.

  Gus grabs his bloody balled up sweatshirt, straightens it out, and drapes it over June's face. "I gotta go check on my family," he says grimly.

  "What about us?" Taylor asks. "You can't leave us here alone -- we'll be killed!"

  "Maybe not," I say slowly. "I think I know what's happening. And why."