[IX. THE GRIEF COUNSELOR]
I have a box of Kleenex on every flat surface in the room. It keeps things clean—I ran out once, and a woman wiped her nose on the carpet. People who are grieving do strange things. It’s natural. But just because it’s natural doesn’t make it hygienic.
Death is a part of the human life cycle. Everyone dies. Everyone tries to evade it, but they die in the process. Coming to terms with a death in the family is an integral part of human growth and learning--I learned that in my certification. It's the Tony Bonanza Five Step Grief Management Course. It's very classy, official. It comes on five DVDs, $29.95 plus shipping and handling.
Mr. and Mrs. Malik clearly did not understand the magic behind the Tony Bonanza Five Step Grief Management Course, but they could easily be taught. That’s my job. I make death okay. I make things better.
“So,” I said. “Mrs. Malik, I like to put a positive spin on things. What is your favorite memory of Karim?”
She shook her head and looked at the ground.
She shook her head and looked at the ground. At eighty bucks a pop, you’d think they would make the most of their sessions. But, as I’ve established, people who are grieving do strange things.
“Mr. Malik?”
He patted her shoulder. He was a real quiet guy; I didn’t get the impression he could speak English. Makes my job a lot more difficult, but that’s why they pay me.
“You know.” I leaned in, as though we were the best of friends. People eat that stuff up. “Death is natural. It’s just another—“
“My son was murdered,” Mrs. Malik said.
This was not something that was covered in the Tony Bonanza Five-Step Grief Management course. Tony only talked about dead grandparents and goldfish. I figured teenage sons would be something similar--someone wasting away, hooked to an IV, crapping in his fishbowl until he turned green. He'd had it coming for a while. They'd finally just pulled out the life support. Wasn't that how all teenagers were supposed to die? Or were they supposed to die at all?
“Oh. Do you know the…perpetrator?”
She glared. “No one is coming forward. All we have is a fuzzy blur in the corner of security footage. That is why we came to you.” When she spoke, it was kind of garbled and I had to lean in close to figure out what she was saying. I made a note to tack another five dollars onto the bill.
“What do you mean?”
“The principal of Karim’s school thought it would be best if we made peace that we might never find his killer.”
I looked at her. My mind was whirling. My mind was saying, Oh, shit.
I hadn’t watched all of Disk Five.
Maybe consoling the families of unsolved murder victims was during the part I hadn't watched yet. Maybe it was during the part I got up to take the turkey out of the oven.
Maybe there was no one who could help these people, not even Tony Bonanza.
THE LITTLE PRINCESS]
My big brother Ben is the best brother in the whole wide world, even when my Daddy said he went to visit the fishies and my mommy told me his brain was very sick. My brain gets very sick sometimes, too, and my nose runs all over my sleeve and Mrs. Parkinson says it’s icky and I have to go wash my hands but the water makes my hands all crackly so I pretend like I do but I don’t anyway.
When I was Cinderella for Halloween, he made my crown. It was pretty with big sparkles and it made me look like a real-live princess, so I wear it everywhere, even to Wal-Mart even though Mommy says it’s redikyulus. I don’t know what redikyulus means but I like my crown anyway, and it makes Ben happy, and I thought it would make him happy when he came home from his sleepover at the Doctor’s house but he was making a frowny face.
He didn’t want to go to school. He sat in his bed and drew with marker all over his arm—little sixes, and sixes are my favorite number so I drew them too and Mommy yelled at him for being a bad infrurence. I don’t know what an infrurence is either but I liked the sixes on Ben’s arm so I kept one hidden on the bottom of my foot where she couldn’t see it.
Mommy cried a lot. “How could you do this we love you” she said and it was very loud and screechy like my cat Noah when I step on his tail. Ben didn’t say anything. I taught him the Spanish I learned from Dora but he didn’t sing Dora’s song with me and it made me feel weird so I sat on his bed and watched him draw more sixes. When I came home from school he was always drawing sixes, and I sat in his lap and his chest was all bony and I put my fingers on the bumps like they were sliding down the stairs on their bottoms.
One night he didn’t eat his peas and Daddy got mad at him. “Benjamin Thomas, you need to eat,” he said in his scary voice but Ben shook his head and took a sip of water. “Benjamin Thomas you are being redikyulus, you need to go to school,” but he kept shaking his head no no no. It made me feel very scared like I do when Daddy yells and it makes the dishes rattle.
It was his turn to do the dishes but he was still making a frowny face when he did them so I sung him a song—My Heart Will Go On from Titanic which he taught me when I was little. And I was waiting for him to say, “Work on your vibrato, Celine” like he always did but he put the dishes in the dishwasher very slowly and didn’t say anything. Which made me feel very weird so I put my crown on his head and sat at the table. His fingers were shaking a bit like when he cried, like people did when they listened to My Heart Will Go On again but I had stopped singing and it was confusing.
One of Mommy’s plates fell to the floor and smashed into all kind of pizza slice shapes. Ben said “Fuck” which Josiah from the playground says is a very bad word. I covered my ears because bad words make me feel funny inside. Ben picked up a piece from the floor and it cut his finger and he put his finger in his mouth and stood for a minute with the piece in his hand.
Big boys do not cry when they cut themselves which makes me very scared because I want to be a big kid too but I cry when I cut myself and it hurts. I cried a lot in art class when I gave myself a papercut and Mary called me a baby. I don’t want to be a baby but I guess I am.
Ben took the piece of plate and ran it over his wrist and made a little red line. He made another line and pushed the plate into his arm so that the little flowers around the edge got very red and he made zebra stripes on his arm and he bled a lot and it was all over the floor and then he made zebra stripes on his other arm and it was on his shirt and his jeans and his socks and I knew Mommy was going to be very mad but I didn’t want him to get yelled at because he was already making a sad face and I think he was going to cry. I walked very carefully around the broken plate and gave him a hug even though my head only goes to his stomach and it makes me feel silly but he is the best brother in the whole wide world and he was sad and I wanted to make him feel better even if he didn’t tell me “Work on your vibrato, Celine”. I could feel the blood from his arm in my shirt and it was yucky but telling people who are going to cry that they are yucky makes them cry more and I didn’t want him to be embarassed so I didn’t say anything.
Mommy saw the broken dish and screamed a lot. It made me scared so I hid in Ben’s shirt because it was too big for him because Daddy said he was a stick person. “How could you do this we love you,” she said, even though she says that a lot and it makes Ben shut his door very loud.
She called the amblulence like they tell you at school and I felt bad because I should have called the amblulence but I didn’t want to make him sad. But they took my big brother Ben away with zebra stripes on his arms and Mommy says he’s still sleeping over at the doctor’s house and he has my crown. My head feels funny without my crown and I want it back but I want him to be happy too so I don’t tell Mommy I want my crown because talking about Ben makes her cry.
Josiah from the playground who knows bad words said to me, “I heard your brother’s a fag” but I don't’ know what that word means and I wanted to hit him because Ben has my crown and he’s the best brother in the whole wide world and I miss him. I want him to come home.
[X. THE CUSTODIAN]
They moved the Oak Lake kid to psych. They put him in a room by himself with padded corners and no sharp objects—the whole nine yards. They gave him crayons, for artistic expression.
He artistically expressed all over my goddamn wall. Like a kindergartener, I swear. Color on the paper. But no. He had to stand up against the wall and draw his crazy designs—just a bunch of 6s, over and over again.
I guess it’s disturbing if you step back. My paycheck, now—that’s disturbing. Disturbingly small.
It took me nearly two hours to scrub it all off they way they wanted, and then the next day—back to square one. I had to catch this kid in the act. No way he was going to tug me around like that, no sir.
I stood outside his door. They keep a little window on the doors for the crazies, just to make sure they’re not doing anything, well. Crazy.
And sure enough, he stood up with his fresh pack of crayons, and put it to the wall. He pulled a streak of blue down the side, and looped it around on itself. A six. Then he began again, his eyes all dull, like he was hypnotized.
I rapped on the door.
He didn’t flinch.
Just kept coloring, and coloring, and coloring.
[XI. THE CORONER]
Malik, Karim
04-09-91
M
Possessions:
- sneakers (blue)
- jeans
- sweatshirt (green)
- underwear
- belt
- wallet
Wallet Contents:
- driver’s license
- US $141
- Westfield Shopping Town Gift Certificate, expired
- condom
Pocket Contents:
- ticket (Rocky Horror Picture Show, Joyo Theatre, 11:00 PM, 02-14-08, $3)
- pass (D. Faber, 2:17, to physics)
- note
“Five things (well, actually six)
1) WTF was up with Tyra last night?
2) Practice with Leo after school. Jealous? Ha. So no Hy to the Vee for me, until late, sorry.
3) New hair=really hot. I want it. Except not really, because then you'd be bald.
4) Keira’s cell: (402) 254-8790. She wants your body. Or just your soul.
5) Something for V-Day? You might think it’s lame, or whatever, but we should do something anyway. Picture Show? Bunch of the drum majors are going; I bet they’d like you. We could just pretend it’s not…V-Day.
My love for you burns like the fire of a thousand suns, or something,
BS”
[XII. THE PRINCIPAL]
[XII. THE ART TEACHER]
[moved to second part]
[MRS. NEXT DOOR]
Oh, I’m not one for questions or judgement. You know little ol’ me--buzzing around the neighborhood, helping folks get back up on their feet. I know that everyone goes through a spot of trouble, and there isn’t a spot of trouble that can’t be fixed with kind words and apple pie.
And that’s just what Mrs. Stark needed. Her oldest—the one who sat with that funny foreign boy on top of my shed—was going through a rough time. Joanne, the nice woman who lives across the street, said he attempted suicide just after St. Valentine’s. A kid like that needs some cheering up, in my opinion.
The little girl who answered to the door told me he had gone to the doctor. I asked her if I could come in, and showed her the pie crust, which always perks up the little ones. “Do you want to help me make it?” I asked.
She nodded and I followed her into the kitchen.
I could see Mrs. Stark through the door to the back porch. She was sitting on the steps with a mug of something in her hands—even with it, she looked dreadfully cold. I set my things on the kitchen table and poked my head out the door. “Hello, dear,” I said. “I’ve just come over to make some pie. Are you all right?”
She gave me a sad smile. “I’m all right.”
A boy in pajama pants and a black t-shirt came up from the basement—her middle child. I’d only met him once or twice, but I’m certain he was a nice boy. The Starks raised their little ones right. “Do you want to help us make pie?”
He slumped into a chair at the edge of the kitchen table. “Sure.”
I set the dough and the rolling pin in front of him and showed him how to roll it thin and flaky. He did it like a regular pro. The little girl was mixing apple slices in a bowl, and for a few minutes, they were quiet and focused. I spread the filling in the crust the boy had rolled and popped the pie in the oven, the heat slapping my face. It felt good—thawed out my nose a little.
We sat in the kitchen for awhile. I watered the wilting plant by the window, and the little girl picked absentmindedly at her fingernails. Then the doorbell rang. Mrs. Stark jumped from her perch and went to answer the door. A man in a police officer’s uniform came into the kitchen. I felt like I was intruding a little, standing there next to the oven. “Should I go?”
Mrs. Stark shook her head. “Wait until the pie’s done.”
She asked him if he wanted anything to drink, and he said water was just fine. I handed her a glass from the cupboard and she poured it for him herself.
"What would you like to ask me, officer?”
He reached into his bag and pulled out a small binder. Inside was a plastic sleeve of photographs of the funny foreign boy her oldest was with all of the time. “Do you know this boy?”
Mrs. Stark bit her lip. “Yes.”
“You do know he was murdered three days ago?” She nodded. He took a drink of his water and cleared his throat. “Ma’am, we have reason to believe that your son was the killer.”
My breath caught in my throat. The foreign boy? Murdered? And with her oldest as the culprit?
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. We found his prints on the body, on the weapon. It’ll take us awhile to make sure, but we may have to move him from Prairie Meadows to a juvenile facility.”
Her voice sounded weak. “But surely—” He looked at her and she looked down at her hands, folded on top of the table. “Do what you must, officer.”
You know little ol’ me—I don’t like to pass judgment, but sometimes the occasion calls. I had always thought the Starks raised their boys right. With the officer sitting at the kitchen table, I wasn’t so sure anymore.
[XV. MARIA]
First day they assigned me to the Stark kid, we had to establish some rules.
He was lying back onto his bed, lips pursed over a bowl of cafeteria corn, sucking it into his mouth kernel by kernel. The TV was on behind a sheet of glass in the wall. It was the America's Next Top Model Cycle 15 marathon.
I shut it off and stood in front of him, hands on my hips. "My name is Maria and I am going to be your new nurse. But I've got Rules. First, None of this self-mutilation crap. You cut, I cut you. Second, I tell you to do something, you do it. Just because you're in a room with foam on the corners doesn't mean you have an excuse to not be a courteous, kind human being with respect for authority. Third, no moping. I don't care if you're a schizo. I get paid to do everything short of wiping your ass. Your parents pay thousands of dollars for you to--"
He looked up at me, corners of his mouth pulled into a smile. "Woah. Chillax, Maria."
According to the packet of papers they gave me, this was the first thing he had said in two months. Score.
Second day they assigned me to the Stark kid, I decided to bring him some pop. In a Thirsty Tiki Mug. You can't get that in the Center itself--caffeine isn't allowed.
If anything, caffeine was what Stark needed.
He looked down at it--a thick block of brown plastic. "What the Hell is a tiki?"
"I don't know, but it's thirsty."
The bowl of corn he was holding clattered against his bedside table. He drank deeply, lips slurping along the edge of the cup. "Thanks."
I looked at him--light hair, black-framed glasses, a string of pimples along his forehead. Yellow Northwest High Eagle Band Camp: We're Bringing Saxy Back t-shirt. A normal kid. They said that I'd never make in social work because sullen teenagers made me angry--kids in baggy pants with chains and black nail polish and razorblade scars on the inside of their arms. Like they had to work at it to be fucked up. Like it didn't come naturally to them. If anything, Stark was sad--all he ever did was watch TV and suck corn.
"Why are you here, Stark?"
He looked at me.
"I mean, you're not a self-pitying asshole. Why are you here?"
"I tried to kill myself, and suicide is never an option because if I needed to talk about things that bad, I have a loving and supporting family and school environment in which to discuss my feelings. Suicide is selfish."
"Oh." I tried to smile. I really did. "If you want to, you can talk to me. I won't, you know. Analyze you, or try to send you to a deeper layer of Hell."
He drained the last of his Thirsty Tiki mug. "I'll think about it."
The third day they assigned me to the Stark kid, there was a glittering man in a suit so black and crisp it could only have been that new if he'd shoplifted it from the Men's Warehouse five minutes earlier. He was holding a briefcase--leather, with M.T. scrolled into the side.
He stuck out his hand. "Hello, Miss Martinez. My name is Matthew Tabourek, and I am currently investigating the murder of student Karim Malik. I have reason to believe Ben knew Mr. Malik very well. His input would mean the world to me."
I almost snorted. "You think he killed someone?"
I gestured through the window. He was sucking corn into his mouth again. Like a corn vacuum.
"I don't know if he did or not," Shiny Suit Tabourek said, smiling. "But I would like to talk to him. I have five questions. It shouldn't take more than a half-hour."
I took him by the arm and pulled him to a plastic bench down the hall. He sat and looked up at me, an uneasy smile on his face. "In that case, give me your questions. Stark doesn't talk to anyone, except for me." I gently pried the briefcase from his hands. "It shouldn't take more than a half-hour."
Shiny Suit Tabourek looked miffed and grabbed at the handles. "Please, madam, if I could have--"
I ignored him and went back to Stark’s room. He looked up when I opened the door. "What's up?"
"Mr. Nosy out in the hall wants me to ask you some questions," I said, and sat down on the end of his bed. I opened the briefcase on my lap and pulled out the Malik, Karim file.
Stark laid his head down on the pillow and channel-surfed. “Are they stupid questions?”
“Probably.”
There was a stack of photos paper-clipped together. On the top was a picture of a kid in a suit--he was, to be honest, cute. Middle Eastern with dark eyes, long eyelashes, skin a diluted brown. The tag pasted to the top of the picture read, Karim, Debate at Creighton Prep, Omaha, 01-14-07. Mother.
The second picture was tagged Karim, Tiffany, Ben at Eaglestock, Lincoln, 05-20-07. Sister. The kid from the first picture was spread out on a beach towel, with a blonde girl and Stark. They were surrounded by picnics, with the sun setting in the background and the edge of a makeshift stage towards the top left corner.
Karim, Ben at Recital, Lincoln, 09-24-07. Mother.
Karim, Ben at Quarry Oaks, Ashland, 09-25-07. Father.
Stark was a camera whore. I flipped through the stack--most of them were of him.
Ben at Hy-Vee, Lincoln, 10-12-07. Karim. Stark sitting in a shopping cart.
Ben at NSBA, Omaha, 10-17-07. Karim. Stark in a marching band uniform.
Ben at UNL, Lincoln, 11-18-07. Karim. Stark fondling the breasts of a metal statue. How mature.
Ben at Karim's House, Lincoln, 1-15-08. Karim. Stark sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper, a waffle poised in front of his lips. He was completely naked but for his glasses.
Karim, Ben at Karim's House, Lincoln, 02-13-08. Sister. Stark with his head on Karim's lap, a video game controller in his hands.
The last picture was titled, Karim, Hy-Vee Parking Lot, Lincoln, 02-15-08. Police Department.
Karim was lying on his stomach against concrete and yellow paint lines. His hands were slightly bloated. His face was mostly hidden, but the little part of his forehead you could see was streaked with dried blood.
I put the pictures back. I didn’t want them to, but my hands were shaking.
The questions were next. They were neatly printed, in size-twelve Times New Roman.
1. Did you have homosexual relations with Karim Malik?
2. If so, did he pressure you into doing things you didn’t wish for?
3. Why did you drive him to the Hy-Vee parking lot on the morning of February 15?
4. Were you present at his murder?
5. Did you murder Karim Malik?
“Stark?”
“Mm?”
“You ready? They’re kind of…heavy.”
He sat up. “Fire away.”
“It says you can answer them orally or you can write them.”
I handed him a legal pad and a pen. He twirled the pen about his thumb and waited.
“Did you…” I looked at the page. It was so politically correct, it was stifling. “Did you and this kid Karim Malik have a gay thing?” I showed him the picture of the Middle Eastern guy in the suit. Stark put his hand in front of his mouth like he was going to vomit.
He looked at his feet and said nothing.
“Did he make you do stuff?”
He began to swing his legs back and forth, making no move to speak.
"Why did you drive him to Hy-Vee the morning of February 15?"
The mattress began to shift back and forth as he swung his legs, the momentum carrying it with him. The paper shook in my hands. Like an earthquake.
“Were you there when he was killed?”
He said nothing. His eyes began to flutter open and shut, hands freaking out, making shapes on the paper that looked like sixes. Six, six, six, six, six. Looping over themselves, layering. “Stark?”
The pad flapped like bird wings on its way to the floor. He stood up with the pen and made sixes on the wall, frenzied, his hand smearing the ink as he wrote. He made sixes on his hand. He made sixes on the caulk in the windowsill and pulled off his shirt and made sixes on his stomach.
“Stark?” I stood up and held his shoulders. He made sixes on my blouse. “Stark? It’s okay; you don’t have to tell me. You don’t have to. I swear.”
He moved back to the wall. He pushed into the loop on his final six so hard that the pen snapped in half and fell to the floor, ink dripping past his hands and running down the wall like blue blood.
I put my arms around him and held him until his hands stopped moving. He fell against me, breathing through his nose. “You don’t have to tell me. I swear."
I never got to ask the last question.
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