Catastrophe Jones

Not here.

Not here again.

Waking up here (again) was like being pulled out of Hell and told you had to live again, but couldn’t change anything, and would end up in Hell anyway. The leaves were slick, or dripping, and the dead fog hung heavily on Ezra-Pound branches. No sound of birdcall, but the barest whisper of rushing water–far away, and yet too damned close. He knew he was being watched. He knew he was being thought of. He knew someone, somewhere just wouldn’t let him die. This happened, now and again, but he could never really understand why. After all the fights, and the deaths, and the missions, and the gloves, and the apartments, and the hundred different worlds that collided in ways he wasn’t comfortable thinking about–

(I’d rather be growing strawberries)

–and then there was that. The occasional thought that filtered through, that was his but didn’t feel like his. It didn’t feel like his at all. He was cold, and half-damp, and his teeth chattered as he shivered his way in the direction of Out, not that he knew precisely where it was, but it would come, and he would rather be doing something than waiting.

He always hated waiting.

* * *

The Out was the same as always, the slit of a window, a looking into the gritty lot that didn’t exist, the lot that was a building of bodegas and huge billboards, the lot that was on the upper corner of what no one calls Hell’s Kitchen anymore. A corner on 48th, by Port Authority, where there is never a small amount of people, also waiting.

Stepping out was twisting, and sideways, and jolting to the nerves and the stomach, and even if he was careful with his feet (which he always was) he tripped, went down, every time, and felt the rolling nausea like he’d just stepped off his too-manyth ride on a Tilt-A-Whirl.

Stand up, stagger, brush off, and he’s just another guy in wrinkled black suit pants and a button-down oxford. The black tie’s knot was half undone, and his sleeves were rolled up, and his hair was looking more like frightened cats fought in it than anything else.

Pack of cigarettes in one pocket, and the familiar gesture of ‘what you see is simply me, with a lighter, of course’ and inhale and exhale and another inhale and another exhale and then one step and then another.

Walking, instead of waiting.

* * *

She was at the noodle shop, all by herself at a table for two, with a notebook and various pens and pencils, an iPod and a bowl of noodles covered in something eye-watering and red.

She looked up, when he came in, and he knew it was her he was looking for, by the way she froze, staring at him with a naked sort of awe and excitement.

A rushing waiter swore in Mandarin, shoving past, but he didn’t care. He stared at her, close enough to touch, and narrowed his eyes. “Do I thank you, or kill you?” he asks, and his voice is smooth and low and honeyed whisky. He expected it to be rough and worn and broken.

“Dunno,” she answered, the most ridiculous grin plastered over her features as she shoved the bowl in his direction. “Noodles?”

One day, Dad came in, and beat the crap out of all the villains.

I don’t know how he had it in him; he always seemed like the pathetic kind of dad every kid is embarrassed by, but then, right when everything seemed lost, he waded into the middle of my room, carrying that one oversized unmatched dining room chair from the hallway desk, and began to crash it down against the monsters that had woken me from a sound sleep. When the chair splintered, and he was left holding the end of one of the legs, broken and jagged, he drove it through the face of the last of them that was still standing, scooped me up in one arm, threw me over his shoulder, and ran out the door that had been torn off its hinges, carrying me to safety.

Mom was in the van with Renee, my little sister, waiting for us with the engine roaring, and a bunch of duffel bags piled in the back. I got scared when she started to pull away–why were they leaving us?–but Dad was yelling “Go, Andy, GO!” and he caught up, threw me into the back seat and jumped in after. He wrenched the sliding door shut, and mom tore up the azaleas as she gunned it through the lawn, her eyes narrowed, her mouth shut in a thin line.

Nobody talked for a long time, and Renee fell asleep against me, and finally slid down until her head fell on my lap, but when the silence was finally broken, it was while the sun was coming up, and dad pointed out the windshield of the van to say, “Ooh! A 24 hour Taco Bell.”

“Thank God,” my mom said, “I’m starving.”

“What?” I asked, staring at them both, pushing Renee’s head off my lap. She muttered and moved to sit up, looking groggy and irritable. “Wait, what?” I wanted to know, craning out of the backseat and sticking my head out between the two grownups. “Are you seriously talking about food? Why are we not talking about what just happened?”

Dad looked over at Mom, who looked at him, then back at me. Both of them were quiet as they pulled off the road and went to go through the drive-thru.

“Dad!”

“Jack,” Mom sighed, looking to Dad. “We–”

“No, I know,” he sighed, and then he turned to look at me, and I saw how he had a cut face, and a black eye, and his glasses were missing a lens, but he had a huge smile that he was trying really, really hard to hide. “Katydid, honey–”

“Dad.”

“Kate. Sorry. Kate.”

It was a fight we were having. I know I’m always going to be Daddy’s little girl, even though I’m older than Renee, but I was getting tired of the babying thing. I’m smart enough to know I’m not a grownup at fifteen, but I’m also smart enough to know I’m not a toddler anymore, either.

“Let’s get food, okay? Couple crunch-wraps, some burritos, a vat of Mountain Dew, and then I’ll… I’ll try to explain, okay?” he begged.

I know my face looked a little too disbelieving, because his face looked really pleading, so I relented, because now that we were in the parking lot, I could smell the fried everything, and my stomach was growling, anyway. “Okay, okay,” I relented.

Too many chalupas and way too many cinnamon twists later, I was still half-craned between their seats, while Renee snored on, in the back seat, pillowed up by a throw rug Mom had never managed to take to the Salvation Army.

“Okay, so?” I said, looking at both of them. “What the hell was that?”

“Honey,” Mom tried to begin. “Your father and I… well, we’re…” She looked to him helplessly.

“Wanted by the mob? Actually government spies with some kind of national secret? You both pissed off some crazy guy back in the day, by getting married, and he’s been plotting revenge for the past fifteen years?” I offered, wanting to fill in the blanks quickly. Mom not knowing how to explain things to me, her eyes searching my face for some clue as to how I was going to accept her truth… was really unnerving.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Dad hastily said, waving his hands. “No, uh. Your mother and I… well.”

“They’re superheroes, Kate,” Renee finally interjected, sounding disgusted.

I turned around to see her sitting up, looking at Mom and Dad with irritation. “What?” I asked, laughing, the word spitting out of me with a bark of disbelieving hysteria.

“Like the Xmen or the Avengers, but real,” she said, her patience obviously tested, by the way she was struggling to not roll her eyes. “They’re superheroes, with super powers, and so am I, and you’re not, because you’re adopted, and nobody wanted to tell you–”

“Renee!” my mother and father gasped, both looking shocked.

“What?” Renee wondered, with all the bewilderment of any other tired eleven-year old. “You said the truth is best. So I’m telling her.”

I’m not really sure what happened right after that, because I think I fainted.

Hearing the words from the sheriff hadn’t made anything more real than seeing it with my own two eyes. I had discovered him, facedown in the kitchen. I had rolled him over and searched for a pulse. I had touched him, cold and unmoving, had called for the police, and waited, watching still, staying in the same room, as though somehow he might ask for something, like a glass of water.

I had seen the county coroner’s office come in, had been asked a hundred thousand questions, trying to keep him in sight even while the investigating teams meandered around with cameras, plastic bags, booties on their shoes and gloves on their hands. I watched as someone shoved a meat thermometer into his abdomen through the blue waffle-knit shirt I’d bought him. I’d seen enough CSI to know what they were doing, and why, and I understood what it meant, and I even watched the black plastic zip closed over his face.

I finally looked away from the spot he’d been, turning my face toward the officer who was watching me with what I had to assume was a mixture of concern and suspicion, frosted with expectation. “Ma’am?” he wondered.

“I’m sorry, officer, did you ask me something?” I was as polite as always; there was no reason to be anything less than perfectly civil. The sheriff hadn’t done it — if I’d come home earlier and caught Matt before it happened, before he did it, or even as he’d done it, it’s likely the sheriff would’ve gotten here in time to make a difference, rather than simply clean up.

“I asked you if there was anyone you wanted to call,” he offered.

“His, ah… his family’s all gone,” I said, frowning slightly. “Mother and father. Little brother,” I murmured. “House fire, when he was a little boy.”

“I see. I’m sorry,” the officer answered, the sympathy hesitant and awkward, but genuine. “Is there anyone we can call for you?”

“I don’t talk to my mother,” I said, and looked down at my hands. “Dad’s long gone. Haven’t seen my sister since…” My voice trailed off, and I looked back toward where Matt wasn’t anymore.

“A family friend, maybe? A pastor?” he offered, honestly trying to figure out where I could go, where I would fit, because they wouldn’t be done here, and I couldn’t be allowed to stay while there was an ongoing investigation. I’m sure it was something as easy as that, but I couldn’t bring myself to be any more helpful.

“I’m sorry, I don’t–”

It was then that an odd scuffle seemed to be coming from the front of the house. Voices were raised in irritation, and the officer with me turned to see what the commotion was.

“Sir, you’ll have to wa–”

“Like hell I will. Karen? KAREN! Where’s my wife? Get out of my way–let me IN!”

I looked up at the sound of the voice, and began to back up, away from the door, just as the officer took my body language as a cue to step in front of me, one hand straying near the gun at his hip. He blocked my view of the doorway for a moment, but when I looked around him, a wild-eyed man was standing there, fighting to free himself from the grip of other officers, shouting “LET ME SEE HER, KAREN!”

The sheriff turned to look at me, as I stared, apprehensive, toward the commotion, and then looked back at him. “Sir?” he wondered, looking at the man in the doorway. “Matthew Donovan?” he asked.

“Yes,” the man snapped, frustrated, yanking his arms out of the grasp of the other men, who looked a little shocked, and let go. “Yes, that’s me, now where’s my wi–Karen!” he said, looking relieved. “Karen, what happened?”

Before he could reach me, I ducked behind the sheriff, who immediately moved to push the man back. “Is this your husband, ma’am?”

“Am I her husband?” the man said, looking incredulous. “What is he talking about, Karen?” he asked, looking at the policeman, and then at me, shocked and confused. “Of course I’m her husband!”

“Is he?” the sheriff asked again, his eyes narrowing.

“No,” I said, shaking my head, feeling queasy and afraid. “No, officer. The coroner just left with Matthew’s body — I’ve never seen this man before in my life.”

The God of the Lost comes to everyone, at some point or another. For Jamie Doran, it was a few days after he’d been told his mother died of pneumonia, and that if he wanted, the Sheriff would take him back to the house, for the night, to stay with his aunt, who had just made the drive from Bergstrom.

He said that would be fine, but he’d like a little time alone with his mother – he wouldn’t call her a body – until the doctors had the paperwork in order. When the Sheriff left, Jamie moved to slip his hand into his mother’s, his calloused child-hand sliding along the dry, papery skin of her mother-fingertips. He moved to press his palm to hers, but instead, turned her hand at the wrist, and leaned down to kiss the center of it, as she once did for him, when he was very little.

“Here,” she would say, as he was headed off to camp, or to Grandma’s, or to school, or a sleepover. “Here’s a kiss to hold on to. Close your hand around it, and keep it until you miss me most, then you can have it with you, and I won’t be far away.”

He brought his lips close to her skin, but before he could give her a kiss to take with her, wherever she was going, he noticed the words written there. At first, he’d thought it was a birthmark, or a bruise, or maybe some betadine, but when he blinked, he realized it was really words, really written there, in the brownish purple ink of a surgical pen.

I’M ALWAYS WITH YOU

I LOVE YOU, JAMIE

PS HE’S NOT HERE BUT HE WILL COME SOON.

The PS made it seem absurd – not that what she wrote was absurd (though it kind of was, he thought) but that there was a PS at all – and he giggled out loud, but the giggles turned into tears as he laid his head down on the hospital bed, and cried the tears that marked him as well and truly alone.

His aunt was waiting for him, but she was the divorced aunt from his mother’s brother, who’d been well estranged from the family, and the rest of his mother’s side of the family was spare, and scattered. His father was gone long before he was born, and his mother never talked about him, not even to say his name, only to wave away the mention of him and mutter, “He’s not here, is he?” His aunt was waiting for him, but his mother was gone – completely gone, and that left Jamie very much alone.

The ride home was a quiet one; the radio in his aunt’s car had been permanently set to some country and western station – it wasn’t that Jamie didn’t like the twang of it, but to be honest, songs about broken hearts and wrecked cars and dead dogs were going to fall on already-traumatized ears, and so the minute he looked like he was paying attention to the radio, his dark eyes focusing, his aunt flicked it off sharply and said, “She’s in a better place.”

Far from being an atheist, Jamie often talked to God, especially in the small hours, but at the moment, all he could think of was how his mother was lying in a hospital bed in a dark, cold room, wires shoved under her skin, a breathing tube down her throat, and either a catheter shoved between her legs, or a puddle of pee gone cold under her, and he said, “No. No, she’s not, Aunt Kathy. Ma’s dead, and that’s a really shitty place.”

“James Andrew Doran!” Kathy gasped, her fists white knuckling on the steering wheel as she drove through the rain, tailgating the car in front of her. “Watch your language. Your mother taught you better than—”

“Ma taught me to say my feelings, and if my feelings were swears that I’d better be sure I was in the company of someone who’d understand, or someone I didn’t care if they didn’t,” he said dully, turning his head to stare back out the window at the blurry, grey-black landscape swiftly slipping by.

“Well, I’m not sure as I understand,” Kathy said, somewhat irritably.

“Don’t care if you do,” Jamie quipped in return, and it was the truth; Aunt Kathy never liked his mother much, and Jamie wasn’t particularly looking forward to try and deal with her at all.