Calamity

Anthony stood and while the squatting man was trying to explain that everything was okay and that there was no reason to be upset, he shoved the man and stormed right for the stocky guy. The guy was shorter than Anthony but a good thirty pounds heavier. He probably played football in high school whereas Anthony had played tennis. Even so, getting the drop on somebody always offered the advantage.

Someone screamed, more of a startled gasp than a scream but it was enough to turn the stocky guy’s attention away from Brendan and toward Anthony. Had that woman not uttered anything, Anthony would have gotten the full advantage of a surprise attack, but as it was he knocked the man off his feet and into the wall. His head bounced off the wall, narrowly missing the white legs of an elderly woman who was next in line for the kneeler. She jumped out of the way and tripped on someone else. She crashed to the floor amid many startled shouts as Anthony grabbed the stocky guy’s black tie.

This guy had been alone with his son saying who-only-knew-what nonsense. Maybe just Bible shit but maybe something worse. The hit against the wall had glazed the man’s eyes but behind that dazed expression pulsed something not right, something uneven, as he had originally labeled it. This guy had watched him surreptitiously while Delaney joked about no one liking his breakfast. This man had smiled real big, the grin of someone who reads the newspaper to count how many sinners were killed in a day’s daily murders, and said, Your daughter. She’s real pretty.

“What were you doing with my son? Youcocksucker! What did you do to my daughter? What the fuck did you do to my Delaney?!”

The screams pushed everyone back but not for long. Anthony’s fists pummeled the man’s face over and over until blood streaked his eyes and mouth and Anthony wasn’t sure if the blood was from the guy’s face or his own knuckles scraping the wall after each hit. Screaming near gibberish, Anthony wouldn’t relent until two people grabbed him by the arms, pulled him off the Bible-thumper and pinned him to the floor.

It was an hour later when, after washing the blood from his knuckles (they were undamaged though swollen and throbbing), Anthony looked for Brendan and couldn’t find him. He couldn’t find Tyler, either. And no one had noticed them leave. Least of all Chloe, whose drug stupor had kept her immune to her husband’s outburst.

3

Usually, images and thoughts flooded his brain and the only way he could hone in on something was to start writing. He had explained this problem, at least in part, to Dr. Carroll in October: “All these images crowd my head, each fighting for attention … and they’re all about bad stuff—like death.” Dr. Carroll nodded, told Brendan his thoughts were perfectly normal and natural, and then gave him Pilly Billie, which helped, but it had really only shone him the way to engage with his thoughts, not how to manage them.

Pilly Billie opened the paper (he wasn’t sure what he meant by that but it was the only way to explain how, after swallowing his daily pill, the disparate thoughts drifted to the margins of his mind and he could focus clearly and precisely on one thing). Once he put pen to paper, it seemed Pilly Billie was unnecessary—writing was its own kind of drug. The pill gave him access to his imagination, but the writing (Detective Bo Blast and his endless quest for The Darkman) kept him focused and, though he’d hate to admit it at times like these, happy even when the world was going to shit. He might even be able to do without the pill, but it was unlikely Dr. Carroll would have him stop: the doc was big on pills; he had been keeping Mom drugged up for a month now.

Watching Delaney’s dead body in a coffin had pushed away all of Brendan’s thoughts—well, almost all of them. It was a protective measure, no doubt, and stronger than even two Pilly Billies. To let all those thoughts (You Killed Her! You Killed Your Own Sister!) have free reign would be suicide. There was no way to rationalize what had happened anyway. Brendan dropped the bowling ball and Delaney went in a casket.

Only one thought made it through the filter: Why had the gods done this to me? He had done what they wanted and in return they took away a piece of what he had been trying to protect. In school, he had read about Greek mythology and had even created a family tree. People believed in these gods for hundreds of years and some people, if his teacher, Mr. Nicholson, was to be believed, still believed in them. They were the precursors to the modern, single God. Mr. Nicholson had presented mythology like an amusing anecdote in mankind’s history. Many people believed the stories, he told them, but certainly not everyone, especially not the educated class. That was a cop-out. Mr. Nicholson hadn’t read the book Brendan kept under his bed. Brendan thought about bringing it in to show him; they could discuss the real meaning of mythology, the real practices these “educated” people performed. Why was the idea of numerous gods so unbelievable but the notion of a single, all- powerful deity completely plausible? Didn’t it make more sense that many gods conspired to create the world the way it was? Such talk would probably send him to Guidance or, heck, even in The School Psychologist’s Office.

Brendan believed in many gods (even if he knew it meant others would recommend counseling) and belief was the magic ingredient that opened you up to blessings from on high. The gods demanded obedience and sacrifice, and Brendan gave them both, but still they had taken Delaney. Perhaps some kind of cruel joke. Were the gods, even now, laughing somewhere above him in the sky? Mr. Nicholson referred to the gods as “capricious,” which meant they were constantly changing their minds, bestowing favor on one person and then removing it without cause to place it upon another. Had that been what happened? The gods simply changed their minds and —oops—Brendan killed his own sister? Was there no fairness? No sense of obligation from the gods to a dutiful servant?

When Brendan read the following passage from Finding God: a History of Appeasing Higher Powers and Fulfilling Man’s Destiny, he almost brought the book to Mr. Nicholson and risked a trip to Guidance or The School Psychologist:

All rudimentary religions are founded on the cornerstone of polytheism, the belief in numerous gods. Whether this be from the Aztecs through the Romans or even the Native Americans (and their belief of spirits in all things—pantheism), the existence in multiple gods, each ruling a separate sector of the natural world and, presumably, the world beyond, is irrefutable as a belief common in early civilizations. To Man, it only made sense that multiple gods held dominion over the world—there was just too much for one god alone.

Brendan didn’t show that passage to anyone, but the top of that page was folded and the passage underlined and placed in crooked brackets, so he could access it the moment he needed support for his beliefs.

He still had a lot left to read. He ought to do that; maybe there was an answer in there somewhere.

Mom was asleep on one of the puffy chairs and Dad in the other was shaking everybody’s hand and thanking them for coming. People offered Brendan and Tyler a nod or two and a mouthed, I’m so sorry, but no one really spoke to either of them. They were the living counterparts to the body in the coffin and as such were like rare artifacts that should be left undisturbed for fear of shattering. Brendan saw the fear in the eyes of the mourners when they glanced his way; they were too scared to say anything because saying the wrong thing might make Brendan or both he and Tyler erupt into an uncomfortable display of grief. People cried at funerals, sure, but men, even boys, were supposed to keep those emotions under control. Tyler had cried during the first showing but Brendan hadn’t felt the urge. He was too confused to give in to the rising tide of pain. He had to figure this out first.

It was a complex math problem. He’d need time to unravel this mess. Grief and guilt would hinder him, like chains. He needed freedom from emotions to find an answer to his sister’s death. He needed to focus. He had taken Pilly Billie, but that was hours ago, and Pilly started to wear off usually after lunch and by this time was almost nonexistent. If he could write, that might help, but Tyler had his composition book and Dad would probably say it was rude or something, writing at his sister’s wake.

Tyler leaned close to him. “You want to hop outside for a bit?”

Brendan nodded. Tyler said something to Dad and then tugged at the sleeve of Brendan’s suit and Brendan followed him through the people gathered outside the Death Room (Dad said it was actually called the Viewing Room, but Death Room sounded more appropriate), and finally outside onto a wooden porch that wrapped around the funeral home. The house was old and the paint was peeling in places on the railing. It was the type of house that creaked no matter where you stepped. Did the funeral people live here, hidden away upstairs somewhere?

Brendan followed his brother to the corner of the porch looking over the parking lot. Almost every spot was filled. Tyler gripped the railing with both hands and leaned back to stare at his shoes. He was going to say something about Brendan’s composition book. Brendan knew when he returned to the bowling alley