Calamity

“This is a sign. Your trouble with the witches. It’s proof that I was going in the wrong direction. The path is clear. We can bring everything back to normal.”

“Slow down, little brother. I know you’re upset about Delaney and maybe I shouldn’t have told you my problems, but you can’t start talking like some zealot.”

“I’m not crazy.”

Tyler started to speak and stopped. Saying anything more could only reap more harm. Brendan was obviously fucked up, really damaged after all that had happened. He had been coping with a drug-addled mother by writing his stories about Bo Blast and the evil Darkman, and he had seemed so damn mature even after Delaney’s death that Tyler hadn’t thought twice about heaping his own problems onto the poor kid. Now, all this religious shit had come unstuck in his brain and he had morphed into a little disciple of religious fanaticism. What about Dwyane and Ellis? Were they even real? Such an imaginative kid could easily conjure a few life-like invisible friends to help him through his problems. Maybe he had watched a few hours of Bible-TV and the ramblings of some hopped-up preacher had seeped into his psyche. Tyler had to proceed cautiously.

“Brendan, listen to me. This is not your problem. None of it is. It isn’t your fault that Mom is messed up. It isn’t your fault that Delaney died. And it isn’t your fault that Sasha and her mother are insane. Don’t take on all these problems. You’re just a kid. You need to play video games and ride your bike. You need to continue this story of yours. It’s really cool.” He held out the composition book. “I’m sorry I told you anything but not because you’re my brother but because this is my problem. It’ll take care of it. Okay?”

Brendan took the composition book as gently as a cat lifting a kitten in its mouth. “You don’t want to hear about God? About how He can help you?”

Even though he didn’t believe it, Tyler told Brendan what he thought the kid would want to hear. “There’s no curse. Witches don’t exist. I’m just paranoid and frightened. Some people are weird and do weird things. I made a bad mistake and these people just want to scare me a little. That’s all. Don’t worry about it.” Tyler almost managed to convince himself.

Brendan flipped through his composition book without reading any of the pages. “I’m glad you liked my story. I think I will finish it.”

“Good.” He smiled honestly as cool relief washed over his scorching worry and anxiety.

Brendan turned to his desk, paused. “I love you, too.”

Tyler stood there a few more minutes as his little brother plopped himself in the swivel office chair Dad purchased for him last summer when he discovered how much time the kid spent writing at his desk. Brendan’s words hit something inside Tyler with a pulverizing force. He could cry if he let himself, but crying wouldn’t solve anything. He’d cry later. He only hoped it would be from relief.

Ten minutes later, back in his room with his thoughts, Tyler answered his cellphone assuming it was Paul and got the biggest surprise of the night.

* * *

“Hi, Tyler,” Sasha said. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Of all the responses Tyler could have said, he managed the most ridiculous: “You’re alive?”

She laughed, but only for a moment and it sounded flat, almost dead. “There’s a lot I need to explain. Can I?”

“I don’t know. Are you willing to tell the truth?”

“I never meant to hurt you, Tyler. I really like you.”

“That’s why you said I raped you? Why you’re going around school telling everyone we’re in love.”

“I am not. I told Stephanie that I really like you, that’s all.”

“And yet I raped you?”

She sighed; it sounded like a gust of wind in the phone. “I was confused, that’s all. I wasn’t ready.”

“You never stopped me.” He was the abusive husband blaming the submissive wife for every bruise.

“Don’t yell at me.”

“I’m not yelling.” He stopped, took a breath. “I’m just pissed. You can appreciate that, can’t you?”

“Yes, but you need to appreciate what I went through, too. I really like you, Tyler, and when you asked me out I was so excited. I spent, like, six hours picking out an outfit, and when you showed so much interest … you were so eager and it felt so good that I didn’t want to stop you. I just didn’t think you were going to do what you did, that’s all. I was really confused. I’m not anymore.”

“That last time I saw you, you were naked on your floor with your mother chanting over you.”

“I know, I know, but …”

“But?”

“My mother isn’t right.”

“No shit.”

“I mean, she’s a wonderful mother. She’s taken great care of me, but after my father was killed, she kind of came unhinged. You know?”

Unhinged. What a perfect word to describe a modern-day witch. “Wait,” he said. “Your father was killed?”

She paused and if he could see her, Tyler knew she was probably staring off into space the way Brendan had moments ago. Was she formulating a lie or contemplating the structure of her truth, though weren’t those two things pretty much the same?

“It was traumatic,” she said. “I don’t want to go into all the details because they’re not important.”

He doubted that but said nothing. It was one of those things you held onto for later when you were trying to piece together a puzzle.

“My mother just hasn’t been the same since he died. She blamed herself, I think. I guess most people do.”

Pill-popping, comatose Mom. “Yeah,” Tyler said.

“She got weird. That’s the only way to explain it. She spent hours on-line looking at these sites about witchcraft and voodoo and ancient African curses and who knows what else. One day, I scrolled through her Internet history and found a site about raising the dead.”

Tyler almost asked for the URL. Raising the dead could come in really handy right about now.

“Then she was going to meetings with other people who believed, that’s what she said—they believed. I told her she was nuts more than a million times but … I had to stop.”

“Why?”

“We had an argument one night last year about all her meetings and her Internet searches. She created that altar in our downstairs. You saw it. I flipped out. Said she was out of her fucking mind and that I’d wish she’d of died instead of Dad.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. So, she sliced her wrists.”

“Jesus.”

“Not too deep, but deep enough. Took me a few days to get the blood out of the carpet. I destroyed her altar, kicked it into pieces. She was in the hospital for three weeks. They did a psych evaluation.”

“And?”

“My mother may be crazy but she can play sane with the best of them. She answered their questions, admitted to some stress and some depression from my dad’s death, and calmed everybody’s fears. I even started to believe she was better. Until she came back home and reconstructed the altar. She apologized for what happened and then went on with her ceremonies or whatever.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone? A guidance counselor. Somebody.”

“So I could be alone? Go into foster care? When I’m eighteen and can be on my own, I will tell someone, I’ll get her some help. But right now, I need to just ride it out.”

“My mother has a doctor. He gives her a lot of pills. She’s asleep most of the day, but she’s not worshipping any evil gods or anything.”

“Neither is mine. She’s just confused, like everybody.”

“I’m just saying …”

“I’m not drugging my mother.”