Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Snow begins to fall as I drive home. I hate the snow about as much as I hate Todd. I pull into the driveway, the place where Mom died in the snow because Todd wasn’t around. Yet another way he’s screwed over my life.

There had been a snowstorm dumping about six inches the day Mom died. School was cancelled, but Todd left early that morning anyway to hang around with his friends. Dad left for work at the usual time, leaving Mom and I alone with drifting snow piling up in the driveway.

“We should go out and shovel the driveway before your father gets home,” Mom says during breakfast. “Otherwise he’ll have nowhere to park.”

I mumble something incoherent in my adolescent way and then go to my room to read the stash of comics I picked up from Charlie’s the day before. Halfway through the latest Detective Comics, Mom taps on the door and sticks her head inside. “Harry, time to shovel the driveway,” she says in a singsong voice that annoys me.

“In a few minutes, Mom. I’m almost done.”

“Now, young man. Let’s go.”

If she had listened to me, there’s a good chance nothing would have happened to her that day. I put on my winter jacket, gloves, and hat before joining her outside. “Where’s your scarf?” she asks.

“Scarves are for kids,” I say.

“Harry, go inside and get your scarf.” I mutter under my breath as I go inside to get the scarf she knit for me two Christmases ago. With the scarf wrapped around my face and in my bulging parka I look about nine years old. I hope none of the kids from school see me outside, looking like this and shoveling snow with Mom. I’ll take endless abuse on the bus for the rest of my high school education. Not that they wouldn’t find something else to abuse me over anyway. At that time I’m still a fifteen-year-old with terrible acne and low self-esteem.

Mom has already started shoveling when I get back out there. Half the snow she throws seems to get carried back from the wind to the same spot. “Why doesn’t Dad just get a snow blower?” I whine.

“We don’t have the money for such things,” Mom says. I want to point out that Dad seems to have the money to hang out at the bar all night, but I’m sure she’d take his side in the argument. Parents always band together like that; anarchy would reign if they didn’t show a united front at all times.

I slam the shovel into the snow until I strike pavement underneath. I try to raise the shovel, but the snow is too heavy for me to lift. I manage to pull the shovel free and scoop out a smaller load to toss onto the yard.

Mom and I work in silence, except for the occasional grunt as we heft the wet snow. Todd and I always had fun while shoveling snow. We pretended we were Rebel soldiers on the ice planet Hoth, digging out trenches before the Imperial walkers descended upon us. Our shoveling took all day because we kept chucking snowballs at each other the moment one of us wasn’t paying attention. With Mom, shoveling is more like work. Long, dull work to carve a driveway from an icy plane. We should pay Mr. Presley to plow our driveway with his truck like the neighbors. Then I could go back inside to finish reading my comics, nice and warm in my room.

I’m sweating underneath the parka and scarf and my arms ache by the time I near the end of the driveway. Mom leans against her shovel next to me, breathing hard from the effort. Her face is flushed—I wonder why she doesn’t have to wear a scarf—and snow is trapped in her dark hair to melt. “We’re almost done,” she says.

“Uh huh,” I say, eloquent as always.

She pats me on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go inside to start some hot water? That way we can make cocoa when we’re finished,” she says.

“All right,” I say. I trudge through the path we’ve carved in the snow, back up to the house. I leave my boots on the porch, which is easier than knocking off all that snow, considering I’ll have to go right back outside to help Mom finish with the driveway. I unravel my scarf, leaving it on the dining room table as I go into the kitchen.

I put the teakettle on the stove when I hear the scream coming from outside. I forget all about the hot water, running outside as fast as I can. I burst through the door in time to see Mr. Presley’s black Dodge pick-up backing out of the driveway and rumbling down the road.

From the porch I see Mom’s pink boots sticking out of the snow. I race over to her in my socks, not noticing the cold. I tug on Mom’s left boot, only to recoil in horror when I pull out her leg, severed at the kneecap. I scream and drop the leg into the snow.

I furiously start to brush snow away from her right boot. Her right leg is still attached. I manage to free her from the snow, dragging her onto the driveway. There’s so much blood: leaking out of her, drying on her winter coat, and staining the snow all around. “Mom?” I say.

Her eyes open then and one trembling hand reaches out to me. Her hand is so cold when it touches my cheek. I take her hand in both of mine, unsure of what else to do. “Your scarf,” are her last words to me. Then she’s dead.

“Mom? Mom!” I try shaking her back awake, but she’s gone. I lie prone over the body for a long time, sobbing uncontrollably and getting myself covered in her blood. I recover enough after a while to go inside and dial 911. The paramedics show up ten minutes later; by then Mom’s face has turned white with a bluish tint at the edges. There’s nothing the paramedics can do for her. One of them puts an arm around me and walks me up to the porch, helping me into my boots. The other loads Mom’s body onto a gurney, covering her with a blanket. I want to follow the gurney to the hospital; I don’t want to lose Mom. A police officer arrives on the scene to take custody of me.

“Don’t worry, son, everything will be fine,” the officer says. It’s about the most asinine thing anyone can say in such a situation. I want to punch the officer in the face. Then I want to take the snow shovel and bludgeon Dad to death for not buying a snow blower. Then I’ll do the same to Todd for leaving Mom and I alone to shovel the driveway.

As I sit in the driveway now, that old anger wells up in me again. Todd stole Mom from me and now he’s taken Susie as well. The son of a bitch is successful only in ruining my life. I would ruin his if he wasn’t doing such a good job of it himself, and bringing the rest of us down to boot. Not anymore. I’m going to erase him from my life.

I go into the garage and find the snow shovel I used the day Mr. Presley ran over Mom in his snow plow. I walk into the living room, swinging the shovel indiscriminately, not caring what I destroy. I break the television Todd used to watch on nights Brooke had to work. I gut the chair where he sat, using the blade of the shovel like an ax. I smash the coffee table where he put his feet up and left his food. When I’m done, the living room is strewn with debris, but I’m not finished yet.

I make my way back to his old bedroom, where the baby clothes and furniture are still piled up. I swing the shovel into the shelves over Todd’s drawers, spraying pieces of action figures in every direction. I see a Robin figure missing his left leg that reminds me of Mom, fueling my rage. I break the figure into tiny fragments. Like King Kong I swat model airplanes from the ceiling, sending them crashing into the walls. With each blow, a little more of Todd’s evil influence is exorcised. He’s a curse, a plague upon me that will soon be destroyed.

In the bathroom, I break open every bottle of cologne, shaving cream, and aftershave he ever used. The resulting odor sends me reeling like nerve gas. I stagger into the master bedroom he usurped from Mom and Dad. I pound the mattress with my shovel, but it does no good. There’s only one way to rid myself of this.

I haul the mattress, box springs, blankets, and sheets out onto the lawn. In the garage I find leftover gasoline for the lawn mower, oil for the cars, and lighter fluid for the barbecue. I coat the bed in the flammable cocktail and then leap back as I toss a match onto the pile. The bedding goes up in a cleansing column of fire that melts the snow all around it.

I’m pleased by the result, but it’s still not enough. I return to Todd’s old bedroom to throw his twin-sized bedding onto the heap. For the finishing touch, I take the Alternate Dimensions sign from the roof of my car, adding it to the heap. Then I collapse onto the muddy lawn to watch the fire consume everything, my body suddenly too heavy to move.

After all the carnage I’ve wrought, the simple truth remains: Susie is still crippled. I’ve accomplished nothing and no matter what I do, it will change nothing. Even if I find Todd and kill him, nothing changes for Susie. She’s lost to me. These thoughts so deplete me that I fall asleep on the lawn.

I wake to someone shaking me. At first I think I’m still in bed, hearing Susie’s voice to wake me before we jog in the park. Then I recognize Brooke’s voice asking, “Harry, what are you doing?”

I look at the pile of smoldering bedding and then at Brooke, who has my niece in her arms. Little Diana’s face is slack and peaceful as she sleeps, oblivious to all the problems of the world. Another life Todd has ruined and she’s only two days old. “I’m cleaning house,” I say.

“Harry, I heard what happened to Susie. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too. Sorry doesn’t mean shit.”

“Come on, let’s go inside.” I follow Brooke inside without protest. She sees the mess in the living room, but doesn’t say anything. She sets Diana on the dining room table and then drops into a seat. “Harry, I’m sure if you give Susie time, she’ll take you back. Right now she’s just in shock.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want her back.” I head for the door. “I’m going out.”

“To do what? Pick up another girl? You think you can replace Susie just like that?”

“She was just a nice pair of breasts, that’s all. There are plenty around this town.”

“Harry, I want to tell you something. Sit down.”

“I don’t have time for a bedtime story.”

“Sit down. Now,” she says in a steely voice I’ve never heard before from her. It’s like Mom’s voice. Maybe motherhood does that to women. I sit down and listen to her story.