“I know,” I say. But I lack the conviction on this one. Because now that I know Bradford, I can believe it. “So I found this guy, and now I’m going to see him.”
“You’re what?” Ben interjects.
“I’m going to see him,” I repeat, but it comes out tepid this time.
“I thought you needed to talk to someone who knew about her death, like the Seattle people,” Ben exclaims. He frowns at me like I’ve violated some treaty.
I take a deep breath to keep my voice level. “I’m talking to the person who caused her death.”
“Except she caused her death,” Richard says. “That’s the definition of suicide.”
Richard and I glare at each other. “Bradford made her do it.”
“Which makes going to see him a brilliant idea!” Ben fumes.
“You knew I was looking for him,” I shoot back.
“I don’t know shit, Cody. Because for the last six weeks, you’ve refused to talk to me.”
“I’m talking to you now. I spent the last six weeks trying to smoke this guy out.”
“And how’d you do that?” Richard asks, his gaze ping- ponging between Ben and me.
“Harry helped, but mostly it was me. I kind of posed as someone who was suicidal. You know, me appetizing mouse. Him hungry snake.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Cody!” Ben exclaims. “Are you insane?”
“You mean like Meg was?”
That shuts him up.
“How does one do that? Pose as suicidal?” Richard asks. “My only experience is the opposite. Someone suicidal posing as okay.”
I could bullshit. I could say I lied, made it all up. But I tell the truth. “I found the part in me that was tired of living,” I say quietly. “And I put her out there.” I look down, unable to face their shock, or anger, or disgust. “I suppose that does make me insane.” I sneak a peek at Ben, but he’s staring hard at the fire.
“Nah,” Richard says. “Everyone goes there. Everyone has their days. Everyone imagines it. But you know why my pop says that suicide is a sin?” He points his thumb toward the house, where Jerry is now helping Sylvia with the rest of the dishes.
“Because it’s murder. Because only God can choose when it’s your time to go. Because stealing a life is stealing from God.” I parrot all the awful things people said about Meg.
Richard shakes his head. “No. Because it kills hope. That’s the sin. Anything that kills hope is a sin.”
I chew on that for a while.
“So what do you expect to accomplish? Now that you’ve found this guy?” Ben asks in a strangely formal tone.
“He has to be liable, somehow, as an accessory, or something.”
“So call the cops,” Ben says.
“It’s not that simple,” I say.
“Have you told Meg’s family?” he asks.
“You’re missing the point,” I reply.
“None of this will bring her back,” Richard says. “You know that, right?”
Yes, I know that. That’s not the point, either, though the point is muddled. But I can’t go to the cops or go to Meg’s family. I have to do this—do something—by myself. For Meg.
And for me.
32
I wake up the next morning to the international coalition of Zeller children leaping onto the couch. I get up, get dressed, and am helping Sylvia with the toaster waffles when Ben pads out, rubbing his eyes.
“Want to get coffee on the road?” I ask him.
“You’re leaving already?” Sylvia asks.
I make apologies, say we should get out of their hair, but Sylvia says we’re no trouble. “And it’s Sunday.”
“Services start at ten,” Richard says, coming out in a cleanish- looking pair of jeans and a T-shirt with no drug references on it. “Can’t you stay? The rev will be bummed otherwise.”
I glance at Ben, who hasn’t spoken to me since last night. He shrugs the question back to me. I look at Richard and Sylvia and realize it doesn’t matter if I brought a gift. This is what matters.
I look down at my cutoff shorts and tank top. “I’d better change.”
“You can if you want,” Sylvia says. “But we’re a come-as-you-are congregation.”
We caravan over at nine thirty, Richard driving with me and Ben, the rest of the family in the van, which has one of those Coexist bumper stickers on it.
Outside the church the various Zeller children are scooped up by different congregants, and Sylvia and Jerry go into greeter mode. Richard slips inside with Ben and me.
We take our seats. The pews are a little worn, and it smells slightly of cooking oil. It’s the dumpiest of the churches I’ve been to, and this past year, I’ve been to a lot. Before that, I hardly went to church at all—Meg’s first communion, and the occasional midnight mass. Tricia usually works late Saturday nights, and Sundays are reserved for worshipping the pillow.
The service here is unlike any I’ve been to. There’s no choir. Instead, different people get up and sing and play guitar or piano and anyone can join in. Some of the songs are religious, but others aren’t. Ben’s all pleased when a bearded guy plays a soulful tune called “I Feel Like Going Home.” He leans over and tells me it’s by Charlie Rich, one of his favorite artists. It’s the first normal thing he’s said to me since we argued last night. I take it as a peace offering. “It’s beautiful,” I tell him.
Jerry sort of stays out of the way for much of the proceedings, allowing a younger guy who leads the youth ministry to run the show. And then, when all the singing is over and announcements have been made, he uncurls himself from his seat where he’s been sitting calmly, and in a voice that is quiet but somehow commanding, steps to the pulpit and starts talking.
“A few weeks ago CeCe was sick. She had a fever, was sluggish—that bug that’s been going around. I know a lot of us went through it.” There is some murmuring and tongue-clucking in the congregation. “Pedro didn’t have school that day, so he had to tag along with us to the doctor’s. CeCe doesn’t like doctors’ offices, having been to so many of them. So she was agitated and crying, and the longer we waited, the worse it got. And we were waiting awhile. An hour went by. Then an hour and a half. CeCe kept crying, and then she threw up. Mostly on me.” There’s sympathetic laughter.
“I’m still not sure if it was because of the virus, or because she had gotten herself so worked up about being at the doctor. Doesn’t matter. But this one mother sitting with her own daughter visibly flinched at CeCe’s mess. And then she chastised me for exposing all the other children to her.
“You’re what?” Ben interjects.
“I’m going to see him,” I repeat, but it comes out tepid this time.
“I thought you needed to talk to someone who knew about her death, like the Seattle people,” Ben exclaims. He frowns at me like I’ve violated some treaty.
I take a deep breath to keep my voice level. “I’m talking to the person who caused her death.”
“Except she caused her death,” Richard says. “That’s the definition of suicide.”
Richard and I glare at each other. “Bradford made her do it.”
“Which makes going to see him a brilliant idea!” Ben fumes.
“You knew I was looking for him,” I shoot back.
“I don’t know shit, Cody. Because for the last six weeks, you’ve refused to talk to me.”
“I’m talking to you now. I spent the last six weeks trying to smoke this guy out.”
“And how’d you do that?” Richard asks, his gaze ping- ponging between Ben and me.
“Harry helped, but mostly it was me. I kind of posed as someone who was suicidal. You know, me appetizing mouse. Him hungry snake.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Cody!” Ben exclaims. “Are you insane?”
“You mean like Meg was?”
That shuts him up.
“How does one do that? Pose as suicidal?” Richard asks. “My only experience is the opposite. Someone suicidal posing as okay.”
I could bullshit. I could say I lied, made it all up. But I tell the truth. “I found the part in me that was tired of living,” I say quietly. “And I put her out there.” I look down, unable to face their shock, or anger, or disgust. “I suppose that does make me insane.” I sneak a peek at Ben, but he’s staring hard at the fire.
“Nah,” Richard says. “Everyone goes there. Everyone has their days. Everyone imagines it. But you know why my pop says that suicide is a sin?” He points his thumb toward the house, where Jerry is now helping Sylvia with the rest of the dishes.
“Because it’s murder. Because only God can choose when it’s your time to go. Because stealing a life is stealing from God.” I parrot all the awful things people said about Meg.
Richard shakes his head. “No. Because it kills hope. That’s the sin. Anything that kills hope is a sin.”
I chew on that for a while.
“So what do you expect to accomplish? Now that you’ve found this guy?” Ben asks in a strangely formal tone.
“He has to be liable, somehow, as an accessory, or something.”
“So call the cops,” Ben says.
“It’s not that simple,” I say.
“Have you told Meg’s family?” he asks.
“You’re missing the point,” I reply.
“None of this will bring her back,” Richard says. “You know that, right?”
Yes, I know that. That’s not the point, either, though the point is muddled. But I can’t go to the cops or go to Meg’s family. I have to do this—do something—by myself. For Meg.
And for me.
32
I wake up the next morning to the international coalition of Zeller children leaping onto the couch. I get up, get dressed, and am helping Sylvia with the toaster waffles when Ben pads out, rubbing his eyes.
“Want to get coffee on the road?” I ask him.
“You’re leaving already?” Sylvia asks.
I make apologies, say we should get out of their hair, but Sylvia says we’re no trouble. “And it’s Sunday.”
“Services start at ten,” Richard says, coming out in a cleanish- looking pair of jeans and a T-shirt with no drug references on it. “Can’t you stay? The rev will be bummed otherwise.”
I glance at Ben, who hasn’t spoken to me since last night. He shrugs the question back to me. I look at Richard and Sylvia and realize it doesn’t matter if I brought a gift. This is what matters.
I look down at my cutoff shorts and tank top. “I’d better change.”
“You can if you want,” Sylvia says. “But we’re a come-as-you-are congregation.”
We caravan over at nine thirty, Richard driving with me and Ben, the rest of the family in the van, which has one of those Coexist bumper stickers on it.
Outside the church the various Zeller children are scooped up by different congregants, and Sylvia and Jerry go into greeter mode. Richard slips inside with Ben and me.
We take our seats. The pews are a little worn, and it smells slightly of cooking oil. It’s the dumpiest of the churches I’ve been to, and this past year, I’ve been to a lot. Before that, I hardly went to church at all—Meg’s first communion, and the occasional midnight mass. Tricia usually works late Saturday nights, and Sundays are reserved for worshipping the pillow.
The service here is unlike any I’ve been to. There’s no choir. Instead, different people get up and sing and play guitar or piano and anyone can join in. Some of the songs are religious, but others aren’t. Ben’s all pleased when a bearded guy plays a soulful tune called “I Feel Like Going Home.” He leans over and tells me it’s by Charlie Rich, one of his favorite artists. It’s the first normal thing he’s said to me since we argued last night. I take it as a peace offering. “It’s beautiful,” I tell him.
Jerry sort of stays out of the way for much of the proceedings, allowing a younger guy who leads the youth ministry to run the show. And then, when all the singing is over and announcements have been made, he uncurls himself from his seat where he’s been sitting calmly, and in a voice that is quiet but somehow commanding, steps to the pulpit and starts talking.
“A few weeks ago CeCe was sick. She had a fever, was sluggish—that bug that’s been going around. I know a lot of us went through it.” There is some murmuring and tongue-clucking in the congregation. “Pedro didn’t have school that day, so he had to tag along with us to the doctor’s. CeCe doesn’t like doctors’ offices, having been to so many of them. So she was agitated and crying, and the longer we waited, the worse it got. And we were waiting awhile. An hour went by. Then an hour and a half. CeCe kept crying, and then she threw up. Mostly on me.” There’s sympathetic laughter.
“I’m still not sure if it was because of the virus, or because she had gotten herself so worked up about being at the doctor. Doesn’t matter. But this one mother sitting with her own daughter visibly flinched at CeCe’s mess. And then she chastised me for exposing all the other children to her.
