214 Palmer Street(70)

None of this was his fault. Like any teenage boy, he’d fallen prey to Clarice Carter’s seductive advances, and it had all unraveled from there. Despite her deplorable personality, she’d been great in the sack and that long-ago summer, sex in the bomb shelter had been intense. He and Clarice had always made it a point to enter the Adens’ yard via the park. They’d been careful when opening and closing the metal doors. Kirk’s parents never suspected a thing. They’d joked about what a great set-up it was. So nice of Bert Aden to provide them with a cot. So much better than the bean bags Kirk dragged in from his family’s rec room.

Having sex there had gone a long way toward making him feel like he had an edge over Kirk instead of the other way around. It might have been on the Adens’ property, but Gavin was the king, since he was the one getting his rocks off doing things with Clarice the other two guys could only dream of. Kirk had denied desiring her—said he only saw her as a friend, but that was clearly a lie. Whenever Clarice made a flirty comment or touched him, even innocently, Kirk’s face flushed bright red. Jeremy fell into a different category. His lust had taken on a form of adulation. He’d followed Clarice around, gazing at her adoringly. He always made a point to reserve the comfortable bean bag for her, and constantly offered to get her cold drinks. So needy.

That fateful night, Clarice had arrived at the bomb shelter drunk, not that it mattered to Gavin. Their sexual encounter had been fast and hot. Clarice had no modesty at all and would strip off all her clothes without a second thought. The first time she did it he was both shocked and pleased. She’d never worried about the two of them being caught. When he mentioned they should be careful, she’d laughed and said, “Live in the moment and go for the greatest pleasure, that’s my motto.”

Say what you would about Clarice, but she knew herself and stayed consistent to her values. Or lack of values, depending on your point of view.

They’d just finished having sex and were still lying together on the cot when they heard the bomb shelter doors open and the sound of talking. Two voices. Kirk and Jeremy. The lantern had cast enough light that he was able to find his briefs and jeans on the ground and pulled them on in short order. Clarice hadn’t moved a muscle. She stayed stretched out on the cot, completely naked. He tossed the crocheted throw at her and she sighed and covered herself with it. In retrospect, her reaction made it seem like she wanted to get caught.

There was a confrontation, of course, something that delighted Clarice. And then, since she was sloppy drunk, she had to start playing around with the machete. The way Jeremy and Kirk stared at her, you’d think they never saw a naked woman before. Both of them tried to get her to put the machete down, without success.

Gavin saw that neither of them was going to be able to get control of her. Pansy asses. “You got to be kidding me,” he’d said, pushing past them and grabbing her arm.

Clarice had yelped. “Stop! You’re hurting me.” She pulled away from him, not releasing the machete.

“Leave her alone,” Jeremy yelled, and rushed in to help her.

What happened next was a blur, both in real life and later in his memory. As he tried to restrain Clarice, she struggled out of his grasp, throwing herself forward and away from him. He reached for the machete just as Jeremy moved into their path. In a flash, the blade sliced through the front of his shirt and plunged into his abdomen. Jeremy staggered back, and the machete, stained with his blood, fell to the ground.

Looking back, Gavin regretted not taking the machete away from her earlier. He was the biggest one in the group and the only one not unnerved by her lack of clothing. He should have taken action, he knew that. Still, the weapon had been in Clarice’s hand at the time it struck Jeremy. Clarice blamed him, of course, because that was her way. Nothing was ever her fault.

After the machete made impact, Jeremy had staggered backward. Before he could fall, Kirk grabbed him under the arms and lowered him to the floor. Jeremy clutched his stomach, the blood spurting between his closed fingers. So much blood. Gavin had seen the crime scene photos his dad had brought home and knew how ugly things could get, but this was far worse than anything he’d ever seen or imagined.

“What have you done?” Jeremy said, his eyes wide.

Clarice took a step back. “Oh my God!”

Kirk looked to Gavin and said, “I’ll go get my folks.”

“No, wait,” Gavin had said, buying himself time to think. “Not yet.” He took one of his socks and pressed it tight against the wound. On the other side of Jeremy, Kirk crouched, a terrified expression on his face. Clarice had retreated back to the cot, suddenly sober.

Jeremy looked him in the eye. “I don’t want to die.”

“No one’s going to die,” Gavin reassured him with false bravado. “We’re going to stop the bleeding and then we’ll take you to the hospital.” Silently he willed the blood to stop, but within seconds the sock was saturated, and still it seeped through.

For years he was haunted by the pathetic sound of Jeremy crying out, “Mama!” right before he took his last breath.

“Damn,” Gavin had said, when he realized Jeremy was dead. “He’s gone.” He’d stood up, looking down at the knees of his jeans, which were stained with blood.

Kirk had shaken his head. “No.” He leaned over the body. “Jeremy, hang in there. I’m going for help.” He stood up.