MARC E. FITCH
Boy in the Box
FLAME TREE PRESS
London & New York
‘How does one kill fear, I wonder? How do you shoot a spectre through the heart, slash off its spectral head, take it by its spectral throat? It is an enterprise you rush into while you dream, and are glad to make your escape with wet hair and every limb shaking.’
Joseph Conrad
*
‘I shall then suppose, not that God who is supremely good and the fountain of truth, but some evil genius not less powerful than deceitful, has employed his whole energies in deceiving me; I shall consider that the heavens, the earth, the colours, figures, sound, and all other external things are nought but the illusions and dreams of which this evil genius has availed himself, in order to lay traps for my credulity.’
René Descartes
Chapter One
Gene Hendrickson was not a good man.
That singular thought pierced Jonathan Hollis through the heart as he stood in line and waited to kneel before the closed casket of his former friend. The term ‘good man’ is generally bestowed upon any male who has reached adulthood without being documented to be awful. It is used far too often to describe the dead, to hide the reality of their true lives, and Gene’s somber, muted wake at Marshall’s Funeral Home was no exception. Only Jonathan Hollis and the Braddick brothers knew the truth.
Family, friends, co-workers and acquaintances stood in the big, melancholy room and whispered quietly about how much fun Gene was at parties, that he always had a big smile and loved to laugh. But in truth, he was a drunk trying to hide from his past – a past Jonathan shared with him. The mourners milled about like they were lost and trying to find their way home. Some of them assumed Gene’s propensity for booze and smiling meant he contained some kind of inner goodness – a light snuffed out when he put the barrel of a rifle beneath his jaw and pulled the trigger. But Gene’s death wasn’t the tragedy. The tragedy was much bigger.
His obituary gave the usual platitudes, but left out the cause of death, saying only that he was found deceased in his home at 41 Crestwood Terrace. In lieu of flowers, mourners could donate to a charity, but a jungle of flowers surrounded the cheap coffin anyway.
Jonathan understood why others would think well of Gene; he had tried to be a good man, but the burden was overwhelming. They had all grappled with it, trying to live with this secret for the past ten years. Jonathan tried his best to be a good father and husband despite the singular, brutal and unalterable fact that comprised his existence. He wondered how the scorecard might stack up at the end of his life. If no one knew, did it count?
Jonathan stood in the procession line against the wall. Folding chairs arranged in square patterns checkered the center of the room, and mourners – some of whom he recognized, but most he didn’t – sat in them, forming small semicircles of quiet conversation. Gene’s mother was still alive and seated in a wheelchair beside the coffin, heart so broken her legs couldn’t or wouldn’t work enough to hold her upright. It was a closed casket. A .30-06 will do to a face what no mortician can piece back together.
Jonathan reached the casket, knelt and, feeling the eyes of the room on him, did his best to say a Catholic prayer to a god he wasn’t sure existed. He crossed himself – north, south, east, west – and moved to his right. Gene’s mother was receiving condolences, the life gone from her, like a puppet whose strings had snapped. He bent down and kissed her cheek. Her skin was like paper. He had known Mrs. Hendrickson since he was a young boy, when he and Gene would play together on summer days, riding bikes, eating lunch in her home, having sleepovers together with Conner and Michael Braddick. But in this moment Jonathan felt he had betrayed her. He’d let Gene slip away and never raised a hand or uttered a word to stop him. Perhaps, having reached this point in their lives, it was almost a relief. No one wanted to talk about the last few years of Gene’s life when the pressure – the guilt and remorse – had truly broken him down, left him a drunken, rambling mess. He was without a wife or children, his friends came and went with the seasons of his insanity, and his job with the town Public Works Department was tenuous at best. Gene had been Jonathan’s best friend since they were eight years old, and Jonathan had just watched him wander away into the darkness.
Perhaps he had secretly wanted it.
“He missed you,” Mrs. Hendrickson said.
Jonathan didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t say he missed Gene, but he did miss something, and he wondered if this might have been the best outcome. Was it then the best outcome for himself and the Braddick brothers, as well? Perhaps one less rogue, living reminder of their shared guilt was better for each of them. It was a horrible thing to think, but horrid thoughts had a way of sneaking into the mind.
Jonathan imagined the feeling was mutual between the remaining three of them. Conner and Michael probably wouldn’t be upset if Jonathan took the same way out. If he was honest with himself, he was heading down the same path as Gene. His guilt over that night drove him to drink, alienated his wife and seven-year-old son, drove away friends. Sure, he wasn’t as bad as Gene. He was at least able to keep the appearance of respectability – a wife, child, house, car. He didn’t live like he was raging against life. But still, in the quiet hours at home, the times when he should have been nurturing his small family, he was losing himself down a well of alcohol and remorse. In the
