May 20, 1991
Rain coming down. Fat drops exploding on my windshield, making brief modern art, killed by the staccato wiper blades.
Rain. Insistent tattoo on the roof of the car, on the windshield. Can't even see the damn rain, for all the darkness out there. Car's engine idles, big cat purring in the night.
Eighteen. I'm eighteen today.
Wiper blades. Wish-click. Wish-click.
And then the sky's alive with lightning. Fast-flash burst of electricity and the rain's a million silver slivers on the night and I see the tree in front of me no more than ten or so yards wow I would've hit that thing when I swerved if I hadn't hit the brakes in
Darkness again. Wish-click. Slam of thunder.
Big burst of lightning now, lighting up the entire sky like an atom bomb. My eyes scream at the white-hot blaze of sky, the explosion of brightness. In that quick wash of light, I see the other car.
Which didn't miss the tree.
Wish-click. Wish-click. Wish.
May 20, 1992
My first year at college is over and I've returned home the conquering hero, with a solid 4.0 in my prospective major, economics. Final exams were a breeze. In Econ 110b, I walked out of the room after only half the time had passed, my blue book filled with analysis and equations. The Teaching Assistant who took the book smiled at me sympathetically, thinking I was quitting early. When I got the test back a week later, I had a 93%. I wish I could have seen the look on her face when she graded it.
Today is my nineteenth birthday, and when I wake up in my own bed, in the bedroom that's been mine since I was a baby, it seems no different from any of the others.
Dad knocks on the door. I can tell it's him because he always knocks the same way -- two short knocks that leave you expecting a third that never comes.
"You up in there, sleepy head?"
"Yeah."
Dad opens the door and comes in. He's a big guy, my dad -- big in stature, big in importance. Before I was even born, he made his first fortune by renovating the downtown waterfront, then promptly took that money and moved all the way out to Brookdale. He wouldn't even let me into the city until I was 16. "Don't believe what the mayor and the commercials tell you, son," he would say. "It's dangerous down there. I spent too much time there to think otherwise."
"You ready for the big day, champ?"
"Sure am." Birthdays are a big deal to my dad. Last year, it was the keys to the car that I later ran off the road. This year, who knows? I've been eyeing one of the new PowerMacs. They've got a built-in FPU and they can scream at close to 100 MHz. I've been using an LCII since high school, and I just can't stand it anymore.
Dad sits on the edge of my bed and pats my knee through the covers. "You just do this, then come right home and we'll head out, okay? No reason to let this ruin the day."
I'd almost forgotten. I was thinking of my birthday when I woke up. I can't believe I forgot.
Last year, I had a little accident on my birthday. A woman named Susan Marchetti died, and because I was technically drunk at the time and because the jury found that I caused the accident, I was convicted of driving while intoxicated and involuntary manslaughter.
But even though I was picturing prison and rapes in the shower, I lucked out. The judge sentenced me to -- get this -- visit Marchetti's grave on the anniversary of her death for ten years.
This is how it's supposed to work: A cop will come to the house at noon to pick me up. He'll take me to the cemetery, where he'll make sure that I spend "a reasonable amount of time" at the grave. Doing what, I have no idea. Mom says I should wear my suit.
"Okay," I tell him. "In and out."
Mom gives me a bouquet of flowers to leave at the grave. It doesn't change anything, but it makes her happy to give them to me, so I take them.
At 12:00 on the dot, a county police car pulls up outside the house. Dad, standing in the foyer, frowns as he looks out the window. "Ingrates," he mumbles.
He looks over at me, then back out the window as the car door opens and a pair of blue-covered legs swings out the driver's side.
"Ingrates. All the contributions I make to the goddamn DA's campaign and the judges' -- "
What I don't want is a scene when the cop knocks on the door. "Chill, Dad. This is fine. What's the big deal? I'm not in jail, right?"
He smiles at me, giving me the big, proud smile he's given me ever since I can remember. "When you get back, we'll all go to Fitzwilly's for dinner, okay?"
"Deal."
And then there's a knock at the door, and I open it and look up into mirrored sunglasses. "Hi."
"Are you ready?" Just like on TV -- no emotion.
"Like I have a choice?" I mean it as a little joke, but the cop's mouth, set in a hard line, doesn't move. That's cool. Neutral. Objective. I understand.
"Let's go," I tell him, and then we're off. He lets me ride in the front seat, which is good, because sitting in the back would just be too much.
We drive through Brookdale, past the First National Bank that still has the old sign outside reading "Brookdale Bank" from before Dad arranged the buyout. Past the old school that's been condemned. We turn up Marwood Road and then onto Church Drive, where you can find the only Catholic church in town. The cemetery's around back; my friends and I used to cut through it back in high school when we were out late at night and trying to get home before curfew.
The cop (Officer Heller, says the little nameplate pinned to his left breast) pulls the car up to the entrance. There are a few other cars there, and as soon as I get out, I see why.
"Whoa. Wait a minute."
Heller, getting out on his side, looks over at me. "Something wrong?"
Goddamn right something's wrong! Looking into the cemetery, I see the Marchettis, clustered around one of the graves. I recognize the parents and the older brother from the trial, and it looks like there's three or four others, as well, maybe friends or extended family. The bouquet of flowers Mom gave me starts to shake, only it's not the flowers, not really -- it's my hand.
"Look!" I point it out for him. "They're all here! I can't just go over there -- "
"The judge says -- "
"Can't we come back later? Tonight, maybe?"
Heller adjusts his gunbelt and steps around the car. "My shift ends in two hours. We have to do this now." He reaches out, as if to take my arm. "Do I have to make you do this?"
"No."
So I follow him under the archway that leads into the cemetery and up the little path wending up the hill that leads to Susan Marchetti's grave. About ten yards out, he stops and parks himself under a tree, gesturing for me to keep going. I just want to run like hell, but Heller's back there and I wouldn't get very far.
Before I can get any closer or even say something, Marchetti's older brother turns around and sees me. He lets out a breath and shakes his head just the slightest bit. I want to say something -- anything -- but he's already turning back, nudging his father, then bending over to whisper something in his ear.
Almost as one, the Marchettis turn to look at me. The mother -- already crying -- wails louder and leans against her husband. Everyone steps back and aside a little as I approach, almost like I was...dangerous.
I watch the ground as I walk over, then stand in front of the grave, stoop, and add my bouquet of flowers to the ones already piled there. There weren't all that many, actually, and my bouquet is bigger and more expensive than the others. I straighten up and stand there, all too aware of the Marchettis standing behind me, staring knives into my back.
The headstone is simple and plain. Nothing fancy. Just plain old granite, carved with the words "SUSAN ANN MARCHETTI" and the dates "1972-1991." Below it all is the phrase "TAKEN TOO SOON."
The silence is fucking killing me. The backs of my calves start to tremble. I want to run or jump over the damn headstone. I mean, Christ, they're all standing. Right. Behind me! Right behind me! Jesus, one of them could have a gun or a knife, they could just jump me and kill me before anyone could move! God! Right behind me! I can't believe it. They're all staring at me. I can actually feel their eyes on me. And I can hear the mother sobbing and some whispering from I don't know who, but I can't make out the words and goddamn it! How long has it been? How long am I supposed to stand here? "A reasonable amount of time" the judge said. How long is that? An hour? Oh, God, if I have to stand here for an hour, I'm gonna die. I'm just gonna have a heart attack and drop dead right here. Christ, how long has it been? My hands are clasped in front of me. Is there anyway I can look at my watch without letting them know? I don't want them to see me looking at my watch. I just want to see how long it's been. I mean, I figure fifteen minutes ought to be "a reasonable amount of time," right?
"I can't believe you came."
Marchetti's father. I think. It sounds like his voice from the trial. He's a plumber or an electrician or something like that. Now what? Do I turn around? Do I have to talk to him?
"Figured you'd've appealed or gotten out of it or paid someone to come here for you."
Shit. "I live up to my responsibilities," I say.
And then Heller shouts "Mr. Marchetti!" which makes me turn around just in time to see Marchetti coming at me, his face red and blustery, tears streaming down his face, his hands (big hands, God, a construction worker maybe?) reaching out for my throat and he grabs me with those big hands, pushing me back and choking me at the same time, and all I can think is that he's gonna make us fall against the tombstone and probably knock it over and they'll blame me for that, too.
"Fucker! Your fucking responsibilities! Fucking respons -- "
Heller's there, then, saying "Mr. Marchetti, you gotta calm down, get off him, you gotta stop this" and grabbing Marchetti under the arms to pull him off me.
Now I'm down on one knee and my suit pants are dirty and filthy and my collar's askew. I rub my throat as Heller wrestles Marchetti back towards his family. The mother and one of the family friends gets into the act, trying to calm Marchetti. Heller releases him and steps away, but keeps a wary eye on the man, who's still blustering and breathing hard like some huge bull.
"Mr. Marchetti, don't make me run you in," says Heller while I'm standing, brushing off, straightening my tie. "Don't do this to yourself." The whole time, he stands protectively between the Marchettis and me.
Once Mr. Marchetti seems a little more manageable (he's a big guy, but he looks small leaning against his son and his wife, crying), Heller takes me by the elbow and starts to walk me down the pathway back to the car. I want to say something, to thank him, but the words -- all words -- stick in my throat the whole way home. I just sit there in the car, shaking, ready to puke. My adrenaline's racing and when I walk through the door, my mother's eyes widen, and my father, who hasn't yet looked up from the paper to see me, says "That didn't take long. Ready for some dinner?"
And I just say "No" and slam the door once I'm in my room.