American Youth Read online

  “There,” he told Kevin, pointing to the chamber. “And close this.” He slid the bolt closed and locked it down.

  “No,” Kevin said. “For real.”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Why?” Bobby said.

  “We’re inside.”

  “Come on,” Kevin said. “Do it.”

  “Show us,” Bobby said.

  The boy looked at them. Their eyes seemed so eager, so captivated. He held out his hand and Kevin returned the bullet to his palm. He took a breath and drew back the action. He looked at Kevin and Bobby as if to say, Like this, and let the bullet into chamber. He fisted the ball on the end of the bolt, slid it forward, and locked it down. It felt beautiful—the slide and clack of steel coupling with steel. He exhaled and looked at them. They smiled. Bobby rocked back and forth from one foot to another.

  A noise outside jarred the boy and he walked to the window. His mother wasn’t in the backyard. He looked nervously from the .22 to the Dennisons. He knew that showing it off would land him in a shit storm of trouble. He bent over and slid it back under the cabinet.

  He moved quickly to the window in the adjacent room and was relieved to find her in the side yard. She was sweeping up the sand on the side of the road. With a snow shovel she lifted piles of it into a wheelbarrow. His mother was small but strong. When she got ahold of him, he was helpless in her hard hands. She could shake him like a rag doll. His breathing calmed at the sight of her, but he felt guilty, watching her work. He knew he should be helping.

  As he turned from the window, he flinched at the concussion of the loud clap in the house. He was puzzled only for an instant. It was different inside, but still he knew the noise. His fists clenched and his jaw bore down on his teeth until it felt as though they might give. He was sure his father would find out, would take his gun and get furious and silent for days. He wondered if he could hide it, some small cavity in the Sheetrock or molding. Maybe the shot went through the floor, the hole hidden by the nap of the carpet, the bullet lost in the dark basement.

  As the boy breached the doorway to the room and saw Bobby on his back, the anger left him. His lungs stammered, unable to commit to the next breath that his body so needed. He looked at Kevin. Kevin was crying.

  “My ears,” Kevin said.

  “What?”

  “My ears,” he said. “I can’t hear.”

  “What happened?”

  “He wanted it and I wasn’t done. He pulled it.” Kevin shoved the gun back at the boy and left the room. The boy walked toward Bobby. A small bubble of spit rose from Bobby’s lips and burst. His eyes blinked, but other than that he didn’t move. The boy moved closer and Bobby’s eyes found him. There was a confusion in his face, like a dog hearing a new sound. The boy nearly jumped when Bobby moved. His hand came up and brushed at the small bloody spot on his chest like it was an itch or some crumbs. Then his arm stopped and lay still again. The spot on Bobby’s chest was close to his left nipple. With his hand over it, he looked ready for the national anthem or the Pledge of Allegiance.

  The boy looked down at the .22. He drew back the bolt and held out his hand to catch the spent shell. He held it to his nose and smelled the sulfurous mouth. He pocketed the casing, closed the action, and put the gun back under the cabinet. He turned and crouched, both feet under him, his elbows on his knees. He watched Bobby closely, the small movements here and there. Bobby stared at the ceiling.

  The boy turned when he heard a noise behind him, and he was startled to see his mother. His body seized with the fear of a forthcoming punishment, but she didn’t come for him. She didn’t scream. Without so much as acknowledging the boy’s presence, she walked quickly over and fell to her knees beside Bobby.

  “Call an ambulance,” she said. He stood alone behind her and watched. She took Bobby’s wrist in her hand. She put her ear to his mouth. She pinched Bobby’s nose and put her lips to his. She exhaled, paused, and exhaled again. She kneeled upright, put one hand atop the other, and pumped on Bobby’s chest. She turned her hands over and looked at them. One had a thick sheen of blood. She looked from her hand to the boy behind her. “Go, goddammit.”

  He went to the next room and dialed the three numbers. He did his best to explain what had happened.

  “Is he breathing?” the voice on the other end asked.

  “A little, maybe,” he said. “I don’t know.”

  “I have some people on the way now, but I need to ask you a few more questions.”

  “Fine,” he said.

  The dispatcher proceeded and he answered the best he could but he was distracted by the sounds from the neighboring room. He stretched the cord and took the receiver away from his ear so that he could peer around the doorjamb. His mother sat up and wiped her hands on the legs of her jeans. She slowly shook her head. Her shoulders jumped twice and she brought a hand to her face. After a moment, she leaned over Bobby and pushed his bangs from his forehead. She ran her fingers through his hair and parted it to the side. She whispered something but the boy could hear only the soft outline of her voice. She patted his hair in place and slowly drew her hands back along his cheeks. She bent again to press her mouth to Bobby’s and the boy felt a pang as witness to this. He felt separate. He felt alone and he quickly looked away.

  When the ambulance arrived, he put the phone down on the counter and went to the door. Two men and a woman moved quickly up the sidewalk carrying heavy shoulder bags. The boy held the door open for them and pointed to the dining room but they stopped on the front stairs. The man in front asked him what had happened. The boy told him that Bobby had been shot.

  “Who did it?” the man asked him.

  “His brother.”

  “Where is he now?”

  The boy shrugged. “Bobby’s right in here. He needs help.” He couldn’t understand their hesitation.

  “Where’s the kid with the gun?” the man said. But before the boy could answer, the woman suddenly stepped forward and shouldered the man aside.

  “Where is he?” she said to the boy, her head bent down to him. “The hurt one?”

  The boy pointed and she walked past him.

  “Wait,” the man shouted after her. “There’s a kid with a gun.”

  “He doesn’t have the gun,” the boy told him. “He left it.”

  The man shook his head and stepped through the doorway, the second man on his heels. The boy followed them in but stopped at the doorway of the dining room. The woman pushed his mother back from Bobby and handed her something for the blood on her hands. After feeling Bobby’s wrist and neck and listening to his mouth, the first man placed a plastic mask over Bobby’s face. He gave Bobby two blows and the second man set to pumping on his chest—much harder than his mother had. Bobby’s head bucked. It looked terribly painful.

  His mother took him hard by the wrist and pulled him out of the room. She had sweat on her brow. She took him to the couch in the other room and they both sat.

  “What did you do?” she said.

  “Mum, it wasn’t me.”

  She didn’t say anything. She dipped her chin and looked hard at him.

  “It wasn’t,” he told her. “It was Kevin.”

  “Tell me,” she said. “Exactly.”

  He told her how he had showed them the gun, loaded it, and stuffed it back under the cabinet.

  “You loaded it?” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Goddammit,” she said. “You know better than that.”

  He started to speak, but he heard more sirens approaching. He lifted himself onto the arm of the couch and looked over his shoulder, out the window. There was a quick squeal of tires as the cruiser turned into the driveway. Almost immediately another cop car appeared and parked behind the first. The boy’s breathing got away from him.

  “Watch what you say,” his mother said. He shook and began to cry. His mother locked a hard hand around his biceps and squeezed. “Theodore,” she said. “You didn’t load that gun. Underst
and?”

  He looked at his mother.

  “Do you understand me?”

  He dropped his chin twice in agreement.

  The officers banged at the door but they didn’t wait. Duncan walked immediately to the boy and his mother, the other officer helped one of the EMTs wheel a gurney into the room where Bobby was. Duncan was tall with short gray hair and a matching mustache.

  “Who can give me an idea of what happened here?” he said.

  The boy slowly raised his hand as if he were in school, as if he had an answer he wasn’t sure was right. He started his story again, and again he was interrupted.

  “Wait,” Duncan said, holding up a hand. “Where’s Kevin now?”

  “I don’t know,” the boy said.

  “Shit,” said Duncan. He picked up the radio that clung to his lapel and began talking into it. As he mumbled into the radio, the boy watched them wheel Bobby by. He wanted Bobby to smile and give him the thumbs-up, but Bobby didn’t move. Two men maneuvered the gurney while a woman pumped a plastic ball that attached to Bobby’s face with a clear mask.

  “How long ago did he leave?” Duncan said.

  The boy didn’t know. It felt like days and seconds at the same time.

  “He can’t be far,” the mother said. “It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes.”

  “I need a description,” Duncan said.

  The boy and the mother pieced together some details.

  “Varney,” Duncan shouted.

  “Talk to me,” the other officer said as he walked into the room.

  “We got a missing shooter, or possible shooter,” Duncan said. “Take the unit and see if you can find him. Early teens, brown hair, five foot or so. Kevin Dennison. Lives on Sandy Creek. Head out there.”

  “Got you,” Varney said. He left the room.

  The boy heard the screen door bang shut.

  “Possible shooter?” the mother said.

  “I’m not here to make any decisions, Donna.”

  “It was an accident,” she said. “Teddy just told you.”

  “It’s not my job to determine that,” Duncan told her. “I’m here to secure the scene and separate the witnesses, which seems to have already been done for me.”

  “You’re going to separate us?”

  “He’s a minor so you have the right to stay with him.”

  “We can have a lawyer, right?” she said.

  Duncan shook his head. “You don’t get Miranda until we arrest you.”

  “What are you going to arrest him for?”

  “The troopers and the attorney general will determine the charges,” Duncan said.

  “I don’t think all this is necessary,” she told him.

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” Duncan said. “We got a shooting where the accused has fled the scene. Not to mention a missing weapon.”

  “It’s under the cabinet,” the boy said.

  “Huh?” Duncan looked quickly at him.

  The boy pointed toward the other room.

  “Why is it there?”

  “That’s where it belongs.”

  “I see,” Duncan said.

  A voice began to squawk from the radio on his lapel and he stepped out of the room. The boy tried to listen to the exchange between Duncan and his radio, but the officer mumbled in a low tone and the voice from the radio was distorted and static-ridden.

  “We got Kevin,” Duncan said as he reentered the room. “And we’ve got an investigator on the way. You expecting Pete?”

  “He’s out of town,” the mother said. “I’ll call him when you leave.”

  Duncan shook his head. “Not if you want to stay with your boy. He’s headed to the station.”

  “Do I have a minute?” she said.

  “What for?”

  She motioned at the dark stains on the legs of her pants.

  “Go on,” he said. After she left the room, he leaned in to the boy and spoke quietly: “This all has to go a certain way, no matter what happened. Understand?”

  The boy nodded. He wanted to smile but he didn’t. Something in him had changed. He couldn’t say exactly what it was, but he felt different. It didn’t feel like he was sitting on the couch, there in the room. It felt like he was somewhere inside his skull, watching the room through the windows of his eyes.

  3

  Waiting in the holding room reminded the boy of being in the doctor’s office. Any minute the door could open, but the minutes kept passing and no one came. The fluorescent lights above them hummed and flickered. His chair squeaked whenever he shifted his weight.

  “I’ll handle this,” his mother said.

  “Ma,” he whined.

  “You have no idea what all’s at stake here,” she hissed in a whisper. “You let me do what I can.” Her tone stopped his protest. He nodded and looked down at his clasped hands in his lap.

  When the door finally opened, he flinched and his mother stood to greet the officer.

  “Hello, Mrs. LeClare,” he said, holding out a hand. “Trooper Thompson, Department of Major Crime.” The two shook hands.

  “Pleased to meet you,” the mother said. “Well, not really.” She faked a smile.

  “I understand,” he said. He reached toward the boy and they shook.

  The boy was intimidated by the trooper. He looked young and he looked like a bruiser. His jaw was thick and square and covered in dark stubble. His left eyebrow was cut in two by a scar.

  “I’ll be working to determine what happened today,” he said. “I apologize for my appearance.” He rubbed his face. “I’ve been on all night—we’re a bit short-staffed at the moment.” He took a seat across from them. “I got most of the basics from Duncan,” he said. “But there’s a lot more to cover. Can I ask you this, Teddy—have you ever been in trouble before?”

  “Of course not,” his mother said.

  “Mrs. LeClare, I need answers from Teddy right now. You’ll have your chance later.”

  “Me?” she said.

  “Of course. He’s your son, it was your home, and you were the first on the scene,” he said. “Now, Teddy, any trouble?”

  “What kind?”

  “Like this. With the law.”

  “Duncan picked us up one time, on the highway, on our bikes.”

  “Us?”

  “Me and Terry,” the boy said. “Terry Duvall. We were taking the shortcut to the Waterhouse, the convenience store.”

  “Anything else?” the trooper said.

  The boy looked at his mother. Then he looked at the floor. “One time he picked us up hitching on the bypass.”

  “What?” the mother said.

  The trooper held a hand up. “You can hide him for it later,” he told her. “Let’s just get through this.” He let his hand down and looked back at the boy. He was fighting a smile. “You and Terry?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Where were you headed this time?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “How far you get?”

  “Duncan was the only one to stop,” the boy said.

  “What did he do?”

  “Took us home.”

  “Nice of him,” the trooper said.

  The boy nodded. “He even let us off about a hundred yards from our houses. So our folks wouldn’t see us get out of the car.”

  The trooper smiled and shook his head. “I have to find a job in a town like this.”

  “Better hurry up,” the mother said. “It isn’t going to be small for long.”

  The trooper nodded. “A lot of changes, I’m sure,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t believe it,” she said.

  “I’m a transplant myself,” the trooper told her.

  “I know it. The way you talk. You’re from Boston. Moved here to raise your kids, I bet.”

  “Nail on the head,” he said. “I’m impressed.”

  “I’ve been here a little while.”

  “Teddy, let’s start yesterday, around this time,
” the trooper said. “What were you doing?”

  “What’s yesterday got to do with anything?”

  “Mrs. LeClare, it’s my job to collect a twenty-four-hour history of everyone involved. Now, will you let me do my job?”

  “Please, go ahead.”

  He was about to start when she interrupted him again.

  “You can call me Donna.”

  He nodded. “Teddy, yesterday, about this time—talk to me.”

  “Me and Terry,” the boy said. “We were out in the woods.”

  “The dynamic duo strikes again.”

  “We weren’t doing nothing wrong.”

  “I didn’t say you were,” he said. “In the woods. Anywhere in particular?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “What were you doing?” the trooper said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nowhere doing nothing,” the trooper said. “Sounds a bit vague, doesn’t it?”

  “I said we were walking the trails in the woods.”

  “You know when I get vague answers?” the trooper said. “When someone’s trying to hide something. What are you trying to hide, Teddy?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You guys out hitching on the bypass again? Or worse? You two fighting with the Dennison boys somewhere?”

  The boy realized he was only causing more trouble. “We were on the Darling place,” he said. “Or what used to be.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything to me,” the trooper said.

  “They were trespassing,” the mother told him. “The land’s posted.”

  “Why were you trespassing?” the trooper asked him.

  “They just logged it. We wanted to see what it looked like.”

  “I can accept that,” the trooper said. “See how much easier this is when you tell the truth?”

  The boy nodded.

  “There’s no reason for all that land to be posted,” the mother said.

  “That’s something you can take up with the owner,” the trooper said. “Let’s keep it rolling, Teddy.”

  He told the trooper about ditching Terry to see the Dennisons. Then he had to explain the fight that Terry had had with Kevin at the beginning of the summer. The trooper didn’t seem to care much about it. He did want to know about the Dennisons.

  “How would you describe them, as a family?” the trooper asked.