December Park(4)

That caved-in side of the head, that unnatural creasing of the right side of her face. Did I really see what I thought I saw?

I trembled.

In collective silence, we sought refuge from the cold inside the bus stop portico at the end of the block. Scott changed tapes in his Walkman, and Peter distributed fresh cigarettes. Smoking, we watched the traffic on Governor Highway. Across the street, the two-and three-story concrete buildings looked like pencil drawings in the gray and fading afternoon. Multicolored vinyl flags fluttered above OK Used Kars, the half-empty car lot riddled with potholes.

Farther along the road, the lights of The Bagel Boutique abruptly went dark, their business done for the day. I’d worked there last summer, dragging myself from bed at four o’clock in the morning to twist dough into rings, dump the rings into a boiling vat, and slide the boiled rings into a six-hundred-degree oven. Even though I wore rubber gloves, the heat was intense enough to cause my fingernails to rise off my fingertips. It was an ungodly enterprise, particularly for a slacker like me.

“What do you think happened to her?” Scott said. “Someone did that to her. Someone killed her.”

“Maybe Lucas Brisbee did it,” Peter suggested.

“Who’s that?” I said.

“You didn’t hear about Lucas Brisbee?” Peter said. He held his cigarette, examining the ember while the wind coaxed water from his eyes.

“I heard,” said Scott.

I leaned against the portico. “Who’s Lucas Brisbee?” I repeated.

“Amanda Brisbee’s older brother,” Peter said. “He graduated like five years ago from Stanton. You know Amanda, right?”

“Sure,” I said. Amanda Brisbee was a grade lower than us. She’d been on the girls’ field hockey team her freshman year until she shaved the hair on one side of her head, started wearing black nail polish, and fell in with the wrong crowd. I knew her mostly through mutual acquaintances—I happened to be friends with the wrong crowd—though I’d never said a single word to her.

“Check this out,” Peter said, and I could detect from his faint grin that he was happy to tell the story. “For the past month, Lucas had been coming to our American history class to talk about the Gulf War. He stopped in every Wednesday wearing his camouflage jumpsuit thingy to talk about what it was like over in Iraq.”

“He spoke once in Mrs. Burstrom’s class, too,” Scott added. “It was bizarre. He wore one of those pith helmets, like they wear on M*A*S*H, and you could see he was sweating to death in the thing.”

“Well,” Peter continued, “he apparently showed up this Wednesday, right on schedule, walking across the football field from the senior parking lot, done up in his whole uniform. Only this time he had his rifle slung over his shoulder.”

“Get the hell out of here,” I said.

“I’m dead serious.”

“Swear to God,” Scott chimed in.

“Mr. Gregg was out with a gym class when it happened,” Peter said. “He told everyone to go back inside, then went up to talk with Lucas. They argued for a bit, and Mr. Gregg actually had to wrestle him to the ground. Some cops showed up, and they took the dude away.”

“Who told you this?” I asked.

“Jen and Michelle Wyatt. They were in the gym class and saw Lucas walking down the football field before Gregg told them to get inside. They said they could see the rifle on his back and that he marched toward them like a Nazi.”

“That can’t be true,” I said, looking out across the highway. A cool darkness had settled over the city. Lampposts came on. Shopwindows on the opposite side of the highway glowed like tiny electric rectangles. At the next intersection, I watched the taillights of automobiles simmering at the foot of a traffic light.

“Like hell it isn’t,” Peter said.

“I would have heard about it on the news,” I said. “Or at least from my dad.”

Peter shrugged. “Does your dad tell you everything? And besides, maybe Brisbee hasn’t, like, been charged with anything yet.”

“Maybe the gun wasn’t loaded,” Scott suggested.

“Weirdest part is he apparently never went to Iraq,” Peter said. “The dude never even enlisted in the frigging military. He worked as a mechanic rotating tires and changing oil and shit over in Woodlawn since graduation. The son of a bitch made the whole thing up.”

“Come on,” I said.

“It’s true,” Scott added, nodding. “I heard it, too.”

“Can you believe that shit?” Peter said, turning away. He’d smoked his cigarette down to the filter. “Guy was nuts, and he’s been giving lectures at our high school for the past month.”

A car sped by and honked at us. I didn’t recognize the driver.

“Maybe nobody killed her. Maybe she died from an accident.” Yet even as I spoke those words I didn’t believe them. I kept seeing the way her head had been smashed and the sallow fish-belly hue of her skin.

“I guess so,” Peter said, but he didn’t sound convinced, either.

Scott glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, tossing his cigarette butt on the ground.

I flipped my jacket collar up around my neck. “I’ll catch you guys later. I gotta stop by the deli for my grandmother.”