The Less-Dead Page 10

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Quindlan reaches into his pocket and takes out a pen and paper. He scribbles something down and hands it to me. “I need to keep my cover. I’m in the middle of a narcotics investigation, and I shouldn’t be doing this, but I figure I can trust you. Just remember, Noah: I’m a homeless guy who hangs out on the Drag with a crazy street evangelist. Nothing more.”

  {fifteen}

  MY ROOM smells like Limburger cheese. At least, that’s what Melanie tells me every time she walks in. Mainly it’s because I haven’t showered in four days, but there’s also that half-eaten gyro I shoved under my bed a couple of nights ago, along with a slice of pizza and a carton of moo shu pork. Carson’s been bringing all my favorite foods, but I have no appetite.

  Atop my desk, the TV is droning. I’ve been watching local news round the clock. Right now a man from the Austin GLBT group is being interviewed. “Yes, we’re very concerned,” he says. “For years Austin has been a safe haven for gays and lesbians in the state of Texas, and now we’re living in fear… .”

  Newspapers are stacked on my dresser. Articles about each murder. Questions about Warren Banks and the Westboro church. Is one person responsible for the killings or is there a hate group involved? The police claim they have things under control. The FBI is continuing a thorough investigation. It’s just a matter of time before they make another arrest.

  There’s a knock at my door. “Noah? Can I come in?” It’s Melanie. She just got home from school—a place I haven’t been in a while.

  I roll from my stomach to my back. “Yeah, whatever, come on in, Mel.”

  She sits on my bed and crinkles her nose. “Noah, there’s an oil slick on your pillow. That’s gross.”

  “Yeah? Maybe I like oil slicks. Maybe I like gross. Maybe I like Limburger cheese, too.”

  “Come on, this isn’t funny! You need to get out of bed!”

  That’s what my parents have been telling me for the past few days. My mother even begged me to see this shrink who goes to our church—supposedly he uses biblical principals when he psychoanalyzes you—but I flat-out refused. Screw talking. Especially to a church member. I just want to be left alone.

  Melanie shakes me. I pull the covers over my head and will her to disappear. Finally she stops. The room is quiet again. For some reason, my yeasty smell is comforting. Who knows, maybe if I lie here long enough, I’ll rise like a loaf of bread. Just as I’m about to doze off, I hear “Noah? Whose book is this?”

  Suddenly I remember I left Will’s notebook of poems on my dresser. I lift off the covers and sit up. Melanie’s thumbing through the pages. I snatch it from her. “Mel. Get out of here. I’m trying to sleep.”

  “I asked, whose book is it!”

  “It’s mine, all right? Now get lost.”

  “You think I’m stupid? It’s not yours. I know what your handwriting looks like. Besides, those poems are good.” She scrunches up her nose again. “Yours suck.”

  “Gee thanks.”

  “Plus there are some weird things written in the margins. Things that don’t make sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I thought it was your book, Noah. Don’t you know what’s inside of it?”

  The truth is I don’t. Every time I pick up Will’s book, I think about the one he gave to me. The one I tossed into the trash.

  “It’s his book, isn’t it?” Melanie asks. “Will’s?”

  The kid’s way too smart for her own good. And since I’m too tired to argue, I nod. “Yeah.”

  “I can tell. The handwriting’s the same as on that note he left you, remember? The night we played baseball in the backyard?” She pauses. “You liked him a lot, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. I did.”

  “Me too. He was nice. And I’m sorry, Noah. Your poems don’t suck. They’re good too. Really good.”

  “Thanks, Mel.” I open Will’s book to make sure Quindlan’s note is still inside. It is. I read the words Just in case. Just in case what? Below that is Quindlan’s cell phone number. I don’t plan to call him, but the seven digits are already stored in my brain, whether I like it or not.

  “Melanie? Listen, this is important. You can’t tell anyone about this book. Not Mom, not Dad. No one.”

  “All right. But why?”

  “Well … because Will didn’t give it to me. I sort of took it. When I found Will, you know, dead, in the woods, I saw the book lying in a pile of leaves. Before the police came, I stuffed it into my pocket.”

  “Oh. You mean you weren’t supposed to do that?”

  “Right. It’s sort of like stealing. Even though I know Will would have wanted me to have it. Anyway, I could get into a lot of trouble if anyone found out.”

  Melanie’s eyes get all wide and teary. “You mean they could send you away, to the farm?”

  I really hate doing this to Mel, but I don’t have much of a choice. “It’s a possibility.”

  “I won’t tell anyone, Noah. I promise.”

  Melanie and I play three games of Uno, and when she finally leaves to do her homework, I prop up my pillow, lie back, and open Will’s book. I’ve been avoiding it long enough; I figure it’s time. First I skim through the pages. On them is a collection of poems and songs—some original, some not—along with Will’s scattered thoughts. Interspersed are quotes from famous authors and musicians. Some of the entries are dated. The first one reads:

  This is a side of Will I didn’t know. If he was depressed, he didn’t show it. I wish I had paid more attention. I wish I’d been a better friend.

  I read the next few entries, and each one is more haunting than the one before. I’m about to put the book away, but then I think of something. The day Will and I met. Three Saturdays ago. I count on my fingers. October ninth. I find the page, and there it is. My Lead Belly song.

  I stare at the words for a long time, remembering what Will said to me that day. Man, someone must have seriously broken your heart. How did he know? And why didn’t I realize what he was really saying? His heart was broken too. Sure, I couldn’t be with Will that way, but why did I have to let him down? I run my fingers over the words. A lump swells in my throat, and finally, for the first time since I saw Will dead in the woods, I begin to cry. And once I start, it’s hard to stop. After a while, I grab a wad of tissues and blow my nose. That’s when I notice something written in the margin, just like Melanie said. It’s a poem of sorts, followed by a Bible passage and a string of numbers in no particular order. She’s right. It doesn’t make sense. And the handwriting is different too. Shaky. Like when I broke my right arm in sixth grade and had to learn to write with my left hand.

  Potter’s Field

  Field of blood where they bury the stillborn,

  the unclaimed, the forgotten.

  Those with no voice, and no name.

  John 8

  5554371

  I grab my Bible from the shelf, blow off the dust, and look up John, chapter eight. Weird. It’s the story of the woman caught in adultery. I’ve heard it many times before. Basically it goes like this: The religious leaders brought a woman to Jesus and said, “We found her in bed with a man who’s not her husband. According to the Law of Moses, she should be stoned. What do you say?” But Jesus didn’t answer them. Instead, he knelt down and drew in the sand with his finger. When they continued to press him for an answer, he stood up and said, “If any of you is without sin, let him throw the first stone.”

  While I sit there trying to make sense of it all, Carson knocks on my door. I slip Will’s book under the covers. “Dude, you’re reading your Bible! Are you having a change of heart?” Carson says.

  “Please. Stop,” I say.

  “All right, but look what I brought you this time.” Carson holds up a brown paper bag and pulls out a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. He pops the lid and waves it under my nose. “Come on, you know you can’t resist.”

  Surprisingly, my stomach begins to growl.
He hands me the ice cream along with a spoon and takes a seat on my bed. I shovel a few spoonfuls into my mouth. The fat seeps into my veins. “Mmm, this is good. Thanks, man.”

  He nods. “Anytime. Listen, Noah, I can’t stay long—the DPCP’s got me on a leash—but, well, here.” Carson reaches into his pocket and hands me a piece of paper. “I saw Hawk in school today and he gave me this note. All he said was ‘Make sure Noah sees it.’”

  I swallow hard, set down the carton of ice cream, and unfold the paper.

  Austin Memorial Cemetery

  Burial for Will Reed

  Saturday, 11 a.m.

  Burial? I think about the poem I just read. Bizarre. “So, I guess they’re done with the autopsy,” I say. “I guess it’s all over.”

  “Yeah, looks that way. Hey, listen, dude, I’m really sorry, but I can’t go to the burial with you. I wish I could, but I got a job. At Guitar Center. I start Saturday. I’ll be on the floor, helping people try out instruments. It’s not Kinkos, but the DPCP’s really jazzed about it. Now, I know it’s taking time away from band practice, but I figure I can network with the employees, maybe even the customers, set us up with a few more gigs in town. What do you think?”

  I’m barely listening. Carson peers at me. “Noah? Hey, are you okay?”

  “Oh … yeah. I’m fine. Hey, that’s great, about the job. Congratulations, man.”

  “Thanks. So, are you going to the burial? Because, I was thinking, it might help. You know, bring some closure, or whatever they call it.”

  “Yeah. I’ll go.”

  “Good. And, Noah? I know this has been rough, but you need to forgive yourself. You’re gonna drive yourself crazy if you don’t.”

  “I know.” I look down, run my hand along the outline of Will’s book hidden beneath the covers.

  “Okay, well, I’d better run,” Carson says. “There’s a youth group meeting tonight. My mom invited Kat for dinner, and I’m supposed to make the salad. I just hope the DPCP behaves himself.” At the mention of Kat, I immediately think of Aubrey, and the ache inside my chest returns in full force.

  “Carson? Does Aubrey know it was me who found Will’s body?”

  “She knows. I told her.”

  This makes me feel even worse. Aubrey knows, and she hasn’t bothered to come see me. She hasn’t even called. “I guess she’s still pissed about the song?”

  “Ah, don’t worry about it. She’ll come around.” Carson picks up the ice cream and hands it to me. “Noah? Remember Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Food comes before girls. You need to eat.”

  I take another bite. “Okay.”

  “So, you think you might come to school tomorrow?”

  I shrug. “I may give it a shot.”

  “Cool.” He holds out his fist. I press mine against it. “But take my advice, okay? Shower. Because if you walk into the Rock smelling like that, you could be charged with assault with a deadly weapon.”

  I give Carson the finger. He grins. “That’s more like it.” When Carson leaves, I pull out Will’s book and reread the poem in the margin. Potter’s Field. Field of Blood. I stare at the string of numbers written below. On a whim, I grab my cell phone and dial. After two rings, a woman picks up. “Austin Memorial Cemetery, may I help you?”

  {sixteen}

  HERE’S WHAT I figure out on the way to the cemetery: Dead people get funerals. The less-dead, if they’re lucky, get a hole in the ground.

  It’s the first really cold day of autumn, and the wind is whipping across the field of tombstones. I climb a grassy hill. In the distance I see Quindlan, Doomsday, and Hawk gathered near Will’s grave site. There’s a chaplain, too, wearing a collar and holding a Bible. Bouquets of flowers dot the landscape, but the place I’m headed for is barren.

  Hawk leaves the others and walks over to me. “Noah, hey. You got my note.”

  “Yeah. Thanks for letting me know about this.”

  “No problem. I thought you’d want to be here. When I heard it was a sixteen-year-old kid who found Will’s body at the greenbelt, I figured it was you. You and Carson were the only ones who knew about the place. And when you didn’t show up at school the next few days, it was pretty obvious. Anyway, are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Me neither. I still can’t believe what happened. None of it makes sense. Will was supposed to meet you that night, hear you play, then go home to his new place. He liked it there. I thought he was all right. I keep blaming myself, like I should have done more. But what? I’ve been running it through my head, trying to make sense of it. I just don’t know why he went back to the campsite.”

  “I do,” I say. “He went to get his book of poems. He’d accidentally left it there.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Quindlan told me. He was at the Red Room the night Carson and I played. He’d seen Will earlier that day. Will told him he’d lost his book and was going back to the greenbelt to find it.”

  Hawk turns and glances at Quindlan. For a brief moment their eyes meet. Hawk looks away. “Noah? Did Quindlan tell you anything else? Anything about me?”

  I hesitate. “No, nothing.” It’s a lie, of course. I remember Quindlan’s exact words: He’s bad news, Noah. Trouble. Keep your distance. And now I realize that Hawk wasn’t at the Red Room either.

  “What about Doomsday?” Hawk says. “Was he there the night you played?”

  “Yeah. I mean, no. He came later on, when our gig was over. The Red Room caters to a gay crowd, and apparently Doomsday didn’t approve of the venue.

  Hawk nods slowly. “Interesting.”

  I wonder if Hawk knows that Quindlan’s an undercover cop. I’m dying to ask, but it’s too risky. Instead, I say, “So, you know Quindlan and Doomsday pretty well, then?”

  “Let’s just say I know them well enough. But, Noah, we better go. They’re about to start.”

  Hawk and I take our places around the burial plot. I nod hello to Quindlan, Doomsday, and the chaplain and then peer into the rectangular hole dug in the ground. Inside is a simple pinewood casket. Nearby, a concrete slab is lying on its side. It reads:

  WILL REED

  1993–2010

  Seventeen years. Over just like that. Reading those dates feels like being punched in the stomach. I think about Will’s plans for next year. California. A job. Helping kids like him—alone and gay—find peace with who they are.

  “Shall we begin?” the chaplain says. He clears his throat and takes out a sheet of paper. His script. “We’re gathered here today to bury our dear friend Will Reed, a young boy whose life was taken suddenly and unexpectedly. As some of you know, Will loved poetry.” I have to admit, the chaplain’s acting skills are pretty polished. He obviously never met Will, but you’d think they were long-lost friends.

  I glance at Quindlan and wonder if he supplied the chaplain with the notes.

  “One of Will’s favorite poems,” the chaplain continues, “was ‘The Road Not Taken,’ by Robert Frost.

  “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

  And sorry I could not travel both …”

  While the chaplain recites the poem, Doomsday begins to sob quietly. I lower my head, remembering the tattoo on Will’s arm, and how that poem brought us together. I think about Will’s life, too, and how he really did take the road less traveled.

  But do I? No. I’d be a hypocrite if I said I did. If only I could go back, change the way I acted the last time I saw Will. At least he would have known that I cared. But what good does wishful thinking do now?

  When the chaplain finishes, he puts away the sheet of paper and opens his Bible.

  “Today, I’d also like to celebrate Will’s life by reading a passage from God’s Word. The Gospel of John, chapter eight, verses three through seven.”

  I look up, wondering if I heard right.

  “‘The teachers of the law and the pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery… .’”

  I feel a tingling on the ba
ck of my neck. I glance around. Quindlan and Hawk have their heads bowed, but Doomsday is looking straight at me. I feel dizzy, light-headed. I plant my feet and stare at the ground until the chaplain finishes. “ ‘If any of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone.’”

  The chaplain bends down, picks up a handful of dirt, and sprinkles it over Will’s casket. “‘Remember, O man, that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.’ Please, everyone, join me.”

  Doomsday is the first to stoop down and pick up a handful of dirt. He sprinkles it over the casket. The rest of us do the same. The sound is like heavy rain falling against a rooftop. “‘I am the resurrection and the life,’” the chaplain drones on. “‘He who believes in me will live, though he dies.’” He closes with the Twenty-third Psalm. “‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want …’”

  “Noah?” Hawk whispers. “Hey, I’m not going to hang around and watch Will get buried. It’s too depressing. Do you need a ride home?”

  “Oh, no thanks. I’m going to stay a little longer. But, Hawk?” I glance at Quindlan, who’s speaking with the chaplain, and Doomsday, who’s kneeling beside Will’s grave. “Do you know who gave the chaplain that Bible passage to read? The one about the woman caught in adultery?”

  “No, I don’t. It was strange, wasn’t it? Sure didn’t make sense for a burial. Anyway, don’t hang around this place too long. I’ll see you at school. Take it easy, man.”

  Doomsday leans precariously over the hole in the ground. His lips are moving like he’s whispering something to Will. I walk over, listen closely, and make out bits and pieces from Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.

  “Every year shall you bloom again,

  Out from where you retired

  you shall emerge again …”