Calamity

Brendan hadn’t cried for the baby, either, though he barely knew his youngest sibling. He had grown more focused and quieter. His grades had improved and he no longer forgot to put away his clothes or toys or put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. He matured. He might be a more serious pre-teen than average but that wasn’t a big deal. Was it? Everyone lost his or her innocence eventually. For some it came late, for others, early. Anthony lost his own father when he was nineteen and that had helped him focus on his collegiate studies and propel himself into the book-publishing world. It was the same with Brendan, that’s all—death was the catalyst that forced him to acknowledge his own mortality. You had to cut hay while the sun shined, after all, because it would be dark before you knew it.

Delaney’s death would only make Brendan even more introverted. The poor boy would throw himself into his studies as Anthony had done in college. He’d turn out alright as long as Anthony kept checking on him. Though maybe not. Assuming Brendan would be fine could be a grievous mistake. It was always the quiet kids, those harboring all their emotions, who eventually shot up their schools. That was an overreaction, obviously, but Anthony didn’t want to turn to CNN one morning and see his son’s school photo on the screen next to the words ALLEGED SHOOTER.

As it was, CNN was running on-going updates about the BOWLING BALL DEATH. It had been the top story for most news programs and cover page material for the local newspapers. The New York Times gave it top billing on the Local News page. All the reports, all the articles, they all said the same thing: Delaney Williams had been killed from a bowling ball dropped off an overpass. The police had no leads. Not for lack of trying. They had questioned Anthony and the boys, tried to question Chloe, and had, according to those reports, questioned everyone at the bowling alley. No one had seen a thing. “Something will turn up,” Sergeant Fratto said. “Someone was driving by, saw something. It’s only a matter of time before that person puts it together. Don’t give up.”

Don’t give up. Ha.

Greg was gone and someone else, one of Chloe’s friends, was offering her condolences. She wore a black and white cocktail dress that stopped well above her knees. If not for the overcoat that hung near her calves, she would have appeared to have wandered into the wrong place. She must be one of Chloe’s single friends. A wake was a good enough place to pick up men as any other, maybe better: she could cry and some guy could console her and that consoling could lead to a bedroom somewhere.

He was retreating back in his own mind while still processing the continuous line of mourners when a tall man in a black suit with a Bible held in both hands stepped in front of him. He had blue eyes and sharp features and his hair was slicked back, matted heavy with gel.

Then Anthony’s mind was lucid again, or as clear as it could be following a few days of endless crying, sleeping pills, and funeral planning. “What do you want?”

“I am very, very sorry for your loss,” the man said.

“Thanks.” He hoped his eyes conveyed his insincerity. What other reason could this man be here if not to use Delaney’s death as an opportunity to add more people to his flock of Jesus freaks? He had probably spotted the obituary in the paper and—

The other guy, the short, stocky one with the loose hairs waving on his head and the He-Man shoulders: he had seen Delaney, even said, She’s very pretty. At the advice of the funeral director, Anthony had the newspaper insert a headshot of Delaney next to her obituary. Pure coincidence, God’s intervention according to them, had led these assholes here.

“Where’s your partner, the one with the wrinkled suit?”

“He’s not here, Anthony.”

“Don’t say my name.”

The man squatted in front of him. Anthony could kick him in the crotch with almost no effort. The dread Anthony had first discovered when staring into this man’s eyes did not return; instead, anger began to stir inside him. There was something off about this man, perhaps even something dangerous, but Anthony didn’t care. He was crashing Delaney’s wake.

“God sometimes speaks to me.”

What more proof was needed of the man’s instability: the really dangerous freaks always claimed a direct link with the man in the clouds.

“He led me to your house. You live in a gated community and the guards would never let us in but last Saturday morning when we drove past on our way to a more accessible development, the gate was open and the guard was gone. It was a sign. We parked in the street and walked your community. We walked right to your house. God led us there.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

The man shook his head. His blue eyes were almost impossibly clear. “I don’t expect you to believe anything, not yet. Your mind is too cluttered with grief.”

“Cluttered?” Anthony’s voice peaked to an unacceptable octave for a viewing and several heads turned. “My daughter is dead.”

“God led me to you for a reason. This is the reason. You need Him.”

Anthony laughed; he couldn’t help it. “That’s how He works, right? He punishes you, takes your kid away, and then says, come to me. I’ll make it all better. He’s a con artist.”

The man’s face did not waver. “‘Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.’ Listen to Jesus and let Him empower you.”

That sounded so familiar and then Anthony remembered. “Got those pamphlets memorized, I see.”

“It’s the truth. I knew you would need His help because He led me to you. That’s all I can do. I am His messenger.”

Anthony leaned forward, their faces only inches apart. “Message delivered. Now get the fuck out of here before this gets ugly.”

“You have so much hate. He can help you. Tomorrow is Maundy Thursday. It is the day Jesus broke bread for the final time. It is the Last Supper. It could have been a time of despair, but it wasn’t, because Jesus knew He would rise again. He was empowered, and you can be empowered, too. You just have to give it a chance. You don’t have to believe, Anthony, you only have to be willing to believe. Tomorrow night. We want you to join us.”

Somehow the man’s words calmed Anthony’s anger. While the man spoke and those blue eyes stayed focused on Anthony, the aggression that had been boiling up receded, leaving his limbs rubbery. If Jesus had existed and the Last Supper really happened, it would be perfectly apropos to join in the commemoration because Anthony was at his own last supper. When Delaney was put in the ground tomorrow, with her would be buried Anthony’s hope. The ultimate loss of innocence. Could a bunch of Bible worshippers actually give him back that hope?

“We only want to help,” the man said. “He wants to help you, Anthony.”

“I told you not to say my name,” Anthony said. He could have easily thrown his arms around this man and wept when only a moment ago he was preparing to fight him. He was trying to be tough, but he only wanted comfort. Dr. Carroll had warned about the emotional roller coaster that followed death, especially that of a child.

“Just think about it and search your heart. Bring your family if you want or come alone. God will help you. He will empower you. Your family is not destroyed. You have a lovely wife and two wonderful sons.”

“What about my sons?”

“I read of them in the obituary.”

“You saw them. Outside.” The ire flushed through him again.

“They’re good boys.” The man’s smile betrayed something from his eyes. That smile revealed true intent, harm even.

“Anthony,” Stephanie said with alarm in her voice, “is everything okay? Who is this man?”

“Where’s your partner?”

“I told you, he’s not—”

“You son of a bitch,” Anthony said so evenly and with gravity that Stephanie backed away and even Mr. Blue Eyes blinked. The man’s partner, the short stocky guy with the wrinkled suit and the uneven gaze in his eyes, entered the viewing room, his arm draped over Brendan’s shoulders. A small smile teased at Brendan’s lips.

That’s what broke the camel’s back, of course—that smile.