They found Jenny Wheeler’s body near the tracks on a Saturday. A sunny morning tragedy. That Monday, Glenn came to school with a list of theories in his pocket. Rob Cousin’s name was listed three times and underlined in gruesome crayon. I thought we were too old for crayons, but Glenn insisted that they were unruly and therefore “artistic.”
“You think the cops would let us cuff him,” said Glenn. “If we tipped them off.”
“You’re dreaming!” I laughed.
At school, Rob had turned the bathroom porcelain and plumbing into Glenn and my own personal torture chamber—hair mixing into unflushed toilet water. So, we wanted it to be Rob. Motive was missing, but we were so young and still thought God was kind. Maybe some good would come of Jenny’s death, was our general line of thinking. Jenny had to go up for Rob to go down.
But when we got serious, it seemed like the only real suspect on Glenn’s list was Jenny’s dad. Glenn’s father said so over a meal of macerated potatoes and dehydrated ground beef. Glenn never argued with his father, and I never argued with Glenn.
“It’s too soon for him to look that good,” said Glenn from behind a Pearl Street mailbox. Jenny’s dad had just picked up a parcel from Arnold’s Mexeria. He looked hungry. But I thought all unshaven men looked hungry—especially the smiling, sweaty ones.
“My mom says she’d put a bullet in her brain if anything ever happened to me,” Glenn explained. I hated this. Death was the worst thing I’d ever heard of. Worse than the draft, cold eggs, and the ever-expanding universe. To this day, I believe Glenn’s mom, Jenny’s short life, and their mixed up influence on me are the reasons I’ve never wanted children.
With no other plans, we followed Jenny’s dad for that whole afternoon, scrutinizing his smalltown walking and talking. He had a nice thing to say to just about everyone that passed him by. They gave him sad looks, frowning, sympathetic eyebrows, which he always seemed to meet head on with a smile. I wanted to get closer so we could hear their exchanges, but Glenn wouldn’t let me.
“I’m sure he knows we’re on his trail. We have to be careful.”
We thanked God with cupped hands when Jenny’s dad chose to stop for a bite at Glenn’s mom’s diner, and not one of the three others on Main. On fleet feet, we darted down the back alley. Mario, the bus boy, had just opened up the door from the kitchen to spit some gum-gray tobacco onto the street. We ducked under his propped-arm and raced inside.
It took us some time, staring through the kitchen’s porthole window to find Jenny’s dad among the crowd of midday, mid-aged, munching, sad sacks. Too early for live music, the stereos carried the tunes, thumping a jazz beat.
“My uncle plays here sometimes,” Glenn whispered.
“Is this the same uncle who climbed Everest?” I asked.
“That’s my mom’s brother.”
“I thought he was the one who kissed all the girls in the eighth grade?”
“She’s got two brothers.”
Jenny’s dad took a chair by the window, facing away from us. A waitress brought him a tray of scramble and tots, and he smiled, practically winked at her.
“The waitress looks a bit like Jenny,” I said.
“Just the hair. Jenny had a nicer face.”
“Totally.”
Mr. Wheeler watched the waitress, unblinking, as she maneuvered her way around tables and returned to the kitchen. The saloon style kitchen doors fluttered behind her. She was long gone but he was still looking at the spot where she had been, as if peering into the past. His eyes had an unnatural shine to them, like water brimming millimeters above the lip of a glass. And he wore his smile so wide it didn’t look happy anymore. I tried to mirror his expression. It made me feel stretched out and heavy. I couldn’t hold it for more than a few seconds. He turned towards the front windows yet again. Right away, his shoulders started shaking, frenetic, beatless, like he found a joke in his reflection in the glass.
“What’s so funny?” asked Glenn, fussed and furious.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Evil, that’s what he is,” said Glenn, sounding more and more like his father.
“Evil,” I parroted.
“I’ve seen enough,” said Glenn. That’s when he dialed 911.
***
I see Jenny’s dad every now and then, walking in his old-man gray hoodie with no swagger at all. These days his toothless mouth can’t even right itself into a grin. It’s not like he has anything to smile about. No one greets him anymore. No one goes near him. But they notice when he’s around and, when he’s out of earshot, they talk.
All those years ago, the police did respond to Glenn’s call from the diner but only because they had nothing better to do. They pulled Mr. Wheeler aside for a few minutes then left without much fuss. He wasn’t ever convicted. No one was.
“But I got him in the eyes of the community. That’s what’s important,” Glenn’s always telling people or so I’m told. We don’t talk too much. Just one of those things. Growing older, seeing each other a little differently. But his words, they still find their way to me. Just last week, Mom, who’s now pushing eighty five, was spouting Glenn’s crap, damning Mr. Wheeler’s soul to hell.
“You see Glenn?” I asked.
“Smart boy,” she said, her voice milky and confused. “Always seeing what the rest of us can’t.”
Maybe Glenn is right, and Mr. Wheeler got what he deserved—slow and painful isolation. But I have this terrible feeling we got things very wrong, that him shaking like that at the diner was not some sinister celebration, but rolls of terrible thunder, the crack and splitting of a sky within, and the promise of a mourning rain.
Nadim Silverman is a Bangladeshi-Jewish writer and illustrator based in New York City. He studied creative writing at SUNY Stony Brook’s MFA program and teaches English literature at Bard Early High School (Bronx). His work has been featured in Flash Fiction Magazine, BULL, The After Happy Hour Review, and more.
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