American Youth Read online

  “Fine,” said the boy. “Nice.”

  “Nothing you ever seen or heard made you question that?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Nothing besides them being separated and him having a girlfriend half his age,” the mother said.

  Thompson nodded at her. “Violence?” he said to the boy. “Drugs or alcohol?”

  “I hardly know them,” the boy said. “They’re pretty new here.”

  “Kevin?” said the trooper. “Ever hear him say anything about smoking a little pot or drinking a few beers?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “How about Kevin and Bobby? How did they get along?”

  “Fine,” said the boy.

  “They fight much?”

  “They argued some but I never saw them really fight.”

  “What did they argue about?”

  “Stupid stuff. Brother stuff.”

  The trooper seemed satisfied and continued. The boy told him about the night after his stop at the Dennisons’ and the following morning. The trooper seemed uninterested.

  “Tell me about what happened after Kevin and Bobby arrived,” the trooper said.

  “They wanted to see my guns.”

  “Why?” the trooper said.

  “They were bored.”

  “How did they go about asking to see the guns?”

  “They said I didn’t have anything to do. They said my house was boring. Mostly Bobby. Then Kevin told him about my guns and they wouldn’t quit after that.”

  “How did Kevin know you had a gun?”

  The boy shrugged. “It wasn’t a big secret. I probably said it sometime.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I showed them.”

  “Can you explain that for me?”

  “I took them to the dining room and pulled it out from under the cabinet,” he said. “We kept it there because the crows bothered my dad sometimes.”

  “There’s a season for crows,” the mother said. “They both got a small-game license.”

  “I don’t care about the crows,” the trooper said. “Was the gun loaded when you took it from under the cabinet?”

  “Of course not,” the mother said. “What kind of people you think we are?”

  The trooper waited until she finished. “Teddy?”

  “It wasn’t loaded,” he said.

  “How did you know it wasn’t?”

  “We never keep them loaded. But I knew it wasn’t because the action was open and I could see the chamber was empty.”

  “Then what?”

  “Bobby wanted to hold it so I handed it to him,” the boy said. “But he pointed it at his brother so I took it back. I told him he was stupid.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re supposed to treat every gun like it’s loaded. No matter what.”

  “How would you describe your experience with firearms?”

  “My experience?”

  “How much have you been around them? How much instruction have you had?”

  “Dad taught me to shoot at what, Ma—six?”

  She nodded.

  “He and my uncle always taught me to be safe,” he said. “I had to take the hunters’ safety course to get my deer tags. I got the card at the house.”

  The trooper nodded. “And how would you describe the Dennisons’ experience, before today?”

  The boy shrugged. “Probably none.”

  “And you were aware of this?”

  “I guess.”

  “So you took the gun back from Bobby,” the trooper said. “Then what?”

  “I showed them the bullets.”

  “Where were they?”

  “In a drawer, in their box.”

  “Who handled the bullets?”

  “I took them out and handed one to Kevin.”

  “How did you hold it?” the trooper said.

  The boy shrugged. “What do you mean?”

  “By the casing? By the tip?”

  He shrugged again. “I don’t know,” he said.

  The trooper reached down and pulled a round from his belt. He held it out toward the boy. “Could you show me?”

  The boy hesitated but then reached up and took the bullet. “Like this, I guess.” The pads of his thumb and index finger held the brass casing.

  “Did you touch any other parts of it?” the trooper asked him. “The primer?”

  “There’s no primer on a twenty-two,” he told the trooper. “It’s rimfire.”

  “Did you touch any other part?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “When I put it back in the box.”

  “You’re sounding a little vague again, Ted.”

  “How is he supposed to remember that?” the mother interrupted. “A boy was just shot.”

  The trooper held up an open hand in her direction. “You don’t have to remind me what happened, Mrs. LeClare. Then what?” he said to the boy.

  The boy shrugged.

  “How did the firearm get loaded?”

  “He knows better than to load a gun in the house,” the mother said.

  “Mrs. LeClare, I won’t ask you again. Teddy, how did the firearm get loaded?”

  The boy looked at his mother. He looked back to the trooper. He shrugged again.

  “Teddy?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I heard something. I thought it was my mom so I put the gun back under the cabinet. I couldn’t see her in the backyard and I went to another window. Then I heard the gun go off and I ran back. Bobby was on the ground and Kevin had it. He said Bobby tried to take it from him. Then he made me take it. I took the casing out and put the gun back under the cabinet. That’s when my mom came.”

  “So how did the gun get loaded?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess one of them.”

  “I thought you said they didn’t have any experience with guns,” Thompson said. “How would they know how to load it?”

  “I showed them, before.”

  “How did you show them?”

  “I pointed to the chamber and told them that’s where a bullet goes,” he said. “Then I closed the bolt.”

  “Where’s the empty casing now?”

  The boy stood and reached into his front pocket. He came out with the empty shell and handed it over to the trooper. The trooper held up his hand for him to wait. He went into his pocket and came out with a handkerchief. He unfolded the fabric and held it open for the casing. The boy dropped it in and the trooper carefully set it to rest on the table before him.

  “How come you took it?”

  “Seemed important,” he said.

  “Can’t argue with that,” the trooper said. “I’m going to step out to get this bagged. Give me a minute.” He took the handkerchief and left the room.

  When the door closed, the boy spun to face his mother. “Ma?” he said.

  She looked at the floor.

  “Ma?” He was more insistent, near pleading.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Good Christ, I don’t.”

  He was shaken by this change in her and he began to cry. When she saw him, she sat upright. She seemed to gather herself. She slid her chair closer and pulled him into an embrace. Her hand was warm and heavy on the back of his neck.

  “Easy,” she whispered. “Just breathe. You’re crazy if you think I’d let them lay a hand on you.”

  He made sucking sounds as he tried to stifle the heaving in his chest. He remembered when two older neighborhood boys had chased him home, threatening to beat him up after an argument turned ugly. He sprinted to his yard and found his mother at work in the garden on her knees. Embarrassed as he was, he took shelter behind her and, without asking, she stood and faced off with the two teenagers. “There’s two of you,” she said. “Seems only fair there be two of us.” She gripped a small spade like she meant to use it and the two boys departed, cursing under their breath.

  Just as the boy was getting his breathing back under control, the trooper a
nd Duncan stepped through the door.

  “Could we have a moment with Theodore?” the trooper asked his mother.

  “Alone?” she said.

  He nodded. “Just a moment.”

  “No,” she said. She shook her head.

  “Donna?” Duncan said.

  “We know this was an accident,” the trooper told her. “Kevin’s story and Teddy’s corroborate that much.”

  “So what’s the problem?” the mother asked him.

  “There’s some differences between their stories.”

  “Maybe Kevin’s lying,” the mother said.

  The trooper paused. “Maybe,” he said.

  “Wouldn’t you?” she asked him.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  “If it was your brother?”

  He looked at her for a moment. “I don’t know, Mrs. LeClare.”

  “Donna,” Duncan said. “It’ll just be a minute.”

  “It’s either me or a lawyer,” she said. “Take your pick.”

  “Will you both sign statements?” Duncan asked her. “At-testing to what you’ve said?”

  She nodded.

  “All right,” said the trooper. “Let’s get that started. We’re also going to need prints done and residue tests on your hands. And we’re going to need your clothes, Teddy.”

  The boy looked at him.

  “You didn’t tell him to bring a change of clothes?” The trooper looked at Duncan.

  Duncan shrugged.

  “What kind of operation is this?” Thompson smiled. “They’ll also need to be tested for gunshot residue.”

  “I got some sweats he can borrow,” Duncan said.

  “You can change in here while we question your mother down the hall,” the trooper said.

  “How do I know this isn’t some scheme to get him alone,” the mother said.

  “Why are you so worried about him being alone?” the trooper said.

  “I know the games you guys can play with a boy like him,” she said. “I expect your mother would do the same for you.”

  “I expect you’re right,” the trooper said. “But I assure you we’re not playing games. You have my word we won’t question him without you.”

  “Then let’s get it over with.” She stood up from her chair.

  “We have to wait a minute,” Duncan said. “Mrs. Dennison’s in the hall.”

  “I’d like to talk to her,” the mother said.

  “No you wouldn’t,” Duncan told her.

  “How is Bobby?” she said.

  “They’re doing everything they can,” the trooper told her.

  “How is he?” she said. She looked to Duncan.

  Duncan looked at the floor and shook his head.

  “Please,” she said. “Can’t I talk to her?”

  Duncan shook his head again. “I know you mean well, Donna, but you’re about the last person I’d put in front of her right now.”

  At the car, Duncan opened the front door for the mother and the back for the boy. The sweatpants Duncan had given him didn’t have a string, so he held a fistful of the waistband to keep them from falling. He cuffed the legs and he pushed the sleeves up over his elbows to keep them put. The boy slid onto the plastic seat in the rear of the car and pulled the door closed behind him. He felt the small tilt in the car as Duncan climbed in. The car shivered when the engine started.

  “Now what?” the mother asked Duncan.

  “Now we wait,” he said. “The evidence, the tests got to come back.”

  The mother looked at him.

  “So they can substantiate a story,” he said. “Teddy claims Kevin loaded the gun but Kevin says the opposite. Unfortunately Bobby won’t be around to say which is so. And neither me or Thompson is much in the mood to go bullying these kids at the moment. Not with what they seen today.”

  “But you said you knew it was an accident.”

  “We can’t rightly say that,” he said. “That was a mistake. Say Kevin is lying about loading the gun. Then we got to ask ourselves why he’s not telling the truth. Did he get upset with his brother and whammo?”

  “I don’t think it was like that,” the mother said.

  “And even if it was an accident, that doesn’t mean there won’t be charges,” he said. “Say it comes out that the gun was loaded before the boys even got there.”

  “No,” she said. “Not a chance.”

  “I’m saying hypothetical, Donna. If that was the case they could bring charges of negligence on you and Pete, resulting in a loss of life. And if it was Teddy loaded it, he could get hit with the same—even reckless behavior. Same goes for Kevin.”

  “How could Teddy be guilty of anything if he wasn’t even in the room?”

  “If he left a loaded gun with two kids he knew had no experience with firearms?” Duncan said. “Some might see that as negligent or reckless behavior.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense to me,” she said.

  “Well, so you know,” Duncan said, “we got a mother with a dead boy who thinks that even owning a gun should be a crime.”

  She nodded. “How about that trooper—Thompson?”

  “What about him?”

  “Is he a good man?”

  “I believe he is,” Duncan told her.

  “I know he isn’t from here,” she said. “But is he like us?”

  “Donna? What does that mean?”

  “You know exactly,” she said. “Does he live in some condo and make his kids wear helmets when they walk down the sidewalk? Does he think it’s a crime if a dog shits on the wrong lawn? Don’t tell me you don’t know what I mean, Dick.”

  “I think he’s fine,” Duncan said.

  She nodded. “How long for the evidence?”

  “Hard to say. This isn’t the TV. The recession’s hit the troopers hard. Thompson was telling me he had a murder case where he waited so long for a set of prints to come back that he finally sent them to his old precinct in Boston. And that was just one set of prints.”

  “How long?” she said.

  “Couple months anyway,” Duncan said. “Probably a safe bet.”

  They drove the rest of the way to the house in silence. In the driveway, Duncan stopped the mother before she could leave the car. “If either of you has any trouble, please call. We’re always around and we know some good professionals.”

  “Excuse me?” the mother said.

  “Counseling,” he said.

  “Oh, no.” She batted a hand in the air. “That’s okay.”

  “You know where to find us,” he said.

  “Thank you, but we’ll be fine.” She got out and opened the rear door for the boy, then headed up the walk, throwing a quick wave at Duncan as he backed out. She pulled open the spring-loaded screen door and the boy followed her inside. He kicked off his shoes, and climbed the stairs to the quiet privacy of his room. He sprawled on his bed and forced his face into the pillow, wishing he could crawl into some small corner of his room and hide. He wanted to slip behind the Sheetrock and stand there between the wall studs, waiting for everything to pass. He lay there for some time, breathing through his pillow, willing himself to disappear, wishing to be like Bobby—invisible and gone and blameless.

  There was a soft knock at his door. He didn’t respond, and it came again. The door opened and his mother softly called his name, but he didn’t move. He tried to breathe as if he were sleeping. She called again and placed a hand on his leg, but still he didn’t budge. After a moment, he heard the footsteps withdraw and the door close again.

  When he lifted his head, there was a wet spot where his breath had soaked the cotton of the pillowcase. He sat up on the edge of his bed, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He pushed on his eyes until it hurt. He pulled at handfuls of his hair.

  “Stupid,” he hissed. “Stupid. Stupid.”

  He drew his hand out away from his head and made a fist. He hesitated for a moment and then dashed himself with his knuckles. Each time he
swung, there was less hesitation and the pop of his fist against his skull grew louder. When his knuckles grew sore, too sore, he started in with his other hand.

  When it left him, after the feeling had burned out, he rested his head back in his hands and ran his fingers over the lumps on his scalp. He knew to do it above the hairline—he’d answered enough questions for the day.

  Later in the night, after he heard his mother climb the stairs to her bedroom, after he gave her time to fall asleep, he made his way back down to the first floor of the house. Sleep seemed impossible. His mind raced with all of the things he could have done, and all the things that still might happen. His stomach ached and turned with hunger. He walked to the refrigerator and took out a plate of lasagna, covered in plastic wrap. He slowly pulled a drawer, eased a fork out, and headed for his room.

  When he passed the dining room, he stopped. He left the plate and fork on the telephone stand in the corner and pushed the round button of the dimmer switch. He spun the knob to dull the glare of the small chandelier and walked to where Bobby had fallen. A rectangular patch of carpet was missing—cut out and taken as evidence by the troopers who had examined the room while they were at the station. The removed swath wasn’t nearly as big as death would seem to demand.

  The round had entered between two ribs, punctured Bobby’s heart, and come to rest in his scapula. Since the bullet never left Bobby’s body, there wasn’t anywhere for the blood to go. It slowly pooled inside him.

  The boy crouched and ran his hand over the carpet around the cutout. It didn’t feel any different. He slowly dropped his nose—it smelled stale and a bit musty. He turned his face and looked under the cabinet, but the .22 was gone. He looked back to the vacant rectangle where Bobby had been and for a moment it struck him: Bobby Dennison was dead, and he would never be anything but that again.

  4

  Late that night, the father arrived from Pennsylvania. The boy heard the car pull in well after two in the morning and he quickly scrambled to kill his bedroom light. He stripped off his pants, threw them across the room, and crawled into bed. He heard the car door thump closed in the driveway and moments later he heard the front door of the house whine open. He heard the father’s heavy footsteps in the house and then the dull, empty sounds of his parents greeting each other. As he listened, he practiced several poses of feigned sleep—on his back, mouth open, on his side, mouth slightly open, on his stomach, face concealed—but they never came for him. When they finally climbed the stairs, he heard them turn and head for their own bedroom.