Four Years from Home Read online

  “Get up, Tom. There are two people from Kenyon here.” Mary was shaking me.

  “I’m sick. I need to hit the bathroom. I’ll be down when I can.”

  She looked at me like I had two heads. “Fine.”

  The family room in our split-level house was on the middle floor along with Mom and Dad’s bathroom and bedroom, and of course, Dad’s buddy, the TV. This floor was their domain and we, even me, had to be careful what we touched. We never went in their bedroom and we never, ever used their bathroom — at least not when they were looking. The hallway, living room, dining room, and kitchen were on the first floor. All the kids’ bedrooms and our bathroom were on the third floor. As I passed the stairs on my way toward Mom and Dad’s bathroom, I saw everyone in the living room. There were a man and a woman with the rest of the family. Both were dressed very officially in business suits. Mom was seating them on the sofa. They looked up when they heard me. I turned away, deciding that if I were going to throw up, I’d better do it in the kid’s bathroom on the third floor.

  Our bathroom was one of my favorite spots in the house. It had a sink with two faucets, one for scalding my siblings and the other for freezing them — a nice feature I put on my list of things I definitely wanted in my dream house. The tub had sliding doors for slamming when I was mad at something or someone. They were unbreakable (as far as I could tell anyway — which is saying a lot since I take pride in being able to break most anything) and you could hear them slam from anywhere in the house — another dream house feature. The toilet was nothing special, but behind it was the coolest laundry chute. It led to the basement laundry room. We never had to carry our dirty clothes anywhere but to the bathroom and stuff them into the chute. It had other, more interesting uses, too. When Harry was still pretty small I stuffed him into the chute and let him fall. I remember doing it as an experiment, but can’t for the life of me remember what the point of the experiment was. It didn’t matter. It was something I wanted to do and that’s usually all that matters. Lucky for him, and probably lucky for me, there was a week’s worth of dirty clothes in the chute to break his fall. It took us hours to find him since he never cried. It was actually Mom, whose consternation led her to start a load of whites, who pulled Harry out of the chute with the dirty sheets. Not a scratch on him, but I took a little heat for being the one who had searched the bathroom to no avail, but, hey, I was a kid. What did I know?

  There was also a narrow window, a gun slit, from which I could spy on the Palermos next door, throw water balloons, and even fire off a few shots with my trusty BB rifle. I hated their dog. It hated me. I was happy when it died. I heard it had eaten a bad piece of meat that someone had thrown into their yard. Fancy that.

  Sitting on the edge of the tub, I couldn’t really hear what was going on downstairs. My stomach had settled a bit, but I didn’t particularly want to go down to meet the Kenyon people. I basically knew what their message was. Harry was dead. We all knew that. What was the point? I decided to head to my room and lie down for a bit.

  Sam poked his head in as I was nodding off and asked, “Don’t you think you should get your butt downstairs and meet these people? I think Dad is wondering what happened to you.”

  “I don’t feel so good. Tell him I’m sick, okay?”

  “You should hear this, Tom. It’s pretty strange.”

  I rolled over, facing the blank wall. I never decorated my walls — no posters, no album covers, no catchy sayings. Everybody knew how I felt about things. There was no need for further advertising. Harry and Sam, on the other hand, were always putting things up on their walls. The only use I ever saw for their stupid wall trappings was that they were a convenient place for graffiti, but that usually got me into more trouble than it was worth. Except the time I altered a “Vote for Kennedy” poster to read “Vote for Kennedy or go to hell…” That gem was worth being grounded for a week.

  “Fill me in later.” I closed my eyes and Sam left.

  I awakened to the smell of brownies baking in the oven. They have a distinctive odor that was almost as delicious as their taste. I like the fudgy ones with nuts best. You can faintly smell the nuts mixed with the rich, chocolate aroma. I was salivating thinking of them. I put brownies in the same category as coffee — one of those things whose smell makes you want them before you’ve ever tasted them. On the other hand, broccoli, spinach, cauliflower, in fact all vegetables, could never make that claim. They smelled more like someone had thrown grass clippings into the oven to roast, and they tasted even worse. Duncan Hines was definitely going to be the court cook in my kingdom. There is no way he’d ever make a vegetable anything for me if he knew what was good for him.

  It was getting dark outside. A three quarter moon shone in the clear frigid sky, reflecting off the snow-covered yard. It was one of those nights that would never get fully dark, one whose shadows would be long and deep, one of those nights made for slinking around and getting into trouble. This would have been the perfect night to spray Mrs. Ioli’s Cadillac with water. It would be a solid block of ice come morning. I smiled, plotting the details in my mind. She would be afraid to chip the ice away from her poor little baby —she might chip the paint — and would be stranded until we had a day above freezing. She would starve to death over there in her evil fortress. I got up and looked out the front window at her darkened house. She was in bed by now and her son, Carmen, was no longer there to protect her from me. Such a perfect plan — one I owned the patent on, by the way. I wondered what would happen if I went out tonight and did it. Would she remember that I had tried to do exactly the same thing back in the good old days? She was probably senile by now. Of course I was much younger then and had been caught. She wouldn’t have a prayer of catching me if I went out tonight, though. I have gotten so much better at hiding things I’ve done… so much better.

  I wandered downstairs after hitting the bathroom. Dad was watching a game show with Mom in the family room. I heard voices in the kitchen and decided to head there. I didn’t feel much like listening to Mom and Dad giving wrong answers to their stupid little TV’s questions. It was humiliating and reflected poorly on the family name. I couldn’t understand why they liked it so much, liked it better than me. I felt a sudden anger well up when I heard Dad say, “I think its Bangor. Bangor, Maine.”

  “It’s Augusta,” I muttered, continuing down the steps. “Augusta is the capital of Maine.” My arch-nemesis the TV confirmed my answer and I smiled to myself. I would always be smarter than them and smarter than their boob tube.

  Kate, Mary, and Sam were sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee.

  “You missed dinner, Tom,” Kate smiled. “I can reheat your plate if you like.”

  “Maybe you should reheat the food instead of just the plate,” I smirked. “It might taste better.” Opening the door to the fridge, my slight nausea returned. They had apparently had some kind of turkey casserole and, from the looks of it, Mary had attempted some bastardized version of an old favorite Mom recipe. I had no appetite anyway so I grabbed a Coke. Without thinking, I groaned.

  “Are you ever not a smart-ass, Tom?” Mary asked. Harsh words from her, but true, I guess.

  At one point during high school Mom and Dad had sent me to a behavioral psychologist who told me that my snappy comebacks, my zingers, my bon mots, were actually a defense mechanism to hide my fear of seeming inadequate or stupid in front of others. That came of low self-esteem, he said. I got him good for that one. I told him that it was really his opinions about me that were a defense mechanism. They were his attempt to hide his total lack of ignorance because he was afraid of looking stupid in front of me and his psycho-crap not worth the money my parents were paying him. I guess I showed him who was insecure and who knew what was what.

  “Sorry, Mary, I’m not feeling that great.” Actually I didn’t feel that bad, but I wasn’t in the mood for a fight, and I wasn’t ready to attempt to stomach one of Mary’s dishes. I ventured a smile at Kate. “Thanks, Ka
te, but I’m not really hungry.” I sat next to her and bumped her playfully.

  She laughed and pushed me back into my own space. “Get back where you belong.” Air space was important at the Ryan table and infringing on another’s was tantamount to an act of war. And once started, the war would not end with Dad’s telling us to stop. That would merely force the war underground, or in this case, under table, where kicking and toe-poking became the generally accepted methods of attack.

  “Got you last…”

  Naturally, the “got you last” rule would inevitably determine who won the conflict. As Kate had pushed me away, I brushed her arm lightly. It was an old trick. You wait for the enemy to strike and once they have made their move, you get them in the act of running, when they are unable to fight back. “Got you back.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too, and besides you only got my sleeve. That doesn’t count.”

  “It counts. Whatever is touching your skin counts if I touch it.”

  Sam smacked the table with his fist and we all jumped. “Your elbow is on the table. I just hit the table. Therefore I just hit you. You lose.”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  Sam’s expression was unyielding.

  Kate shot me the raspberries and laughed, “Loser.”

  I had definitely softened in my old age. There was a time when I would have dealt swiftly with them. I guess all ruling monarchs eventually lose some of their fire the longer they are in power. They become benevolent, which is another word for worn out. That’s why they need to get all their important accomplishments done in the first few decades of their reign. After that, it’s all downhill and resting on laurels. Aren’t they trees? I made a note to change the dictionary on that one. I couldn’t see myself resting on tree branches. Pillows seemed much more comfortable.

  “So, what happened with the Kenyon thing?” I asked to no one directly. I figured that they had already decided who was going to tell me, so it was easier to send out a non-directional inquiry and let the appointed person respond.

  Sam cleared his throat. Figured it would be him. “Well, like I was trying to tell you earlier, Tom, when you totally blew me off… It was all a little weird.” He paused and looked around the room.

  Sam had some agenda I couldn’t figure out at the moment. Dramatic pauses, knowing looks, what the heck was that all about? Just spit it out! I stared at him briefly, and then answered, “Okay?” What did he want — an invitation to continue? I never enjoyed etiquette and right now was no exception.

  We all watched him until he seemed to come to a decision and began to speak. “There’s a river near Kenyon. A railroad crosses over it on an old trestle bridge. Trains still run there but not very often. It’s pretty dangerous for anyone to get across because you have to either walk on the rails or jump from tie to tie and hope that a train doesn’t come along while you’re out over the water. Apparently it’s a tradition that all the fraternities make the pledges cross it as part of their initiation. Mr. Caplets — that was the Kenyon guy — said that a student died there a long time ago. It had been raining and the boy slipped on a wet tie, hit his head, and fell into the river and drowned. That’s when they officially banned the activity.”

  Sam took a sip of his coffee and I just waited. I pretty much knew what was coming and saw no need to jump in with superfluous questions.

  “Of course, that didn’t stop the frats from doing it. You make something illegal and that just makes it more exciting to do, no matter how stupid it is, like gambling or smoking or drinking.”

  I thought about that for a second. Sam was absolutely right. I made a note to make sure smoking, drinking, and gambling were outlawed in my kingdom so that people would find it more exciting. And, of course, I would own controlling interest in the illicit clubs that operated under the official radar. We would even arrest a few people once in a while to give the thrill seekers a greater sense of danger. A nice profit in that… I thought about that a second, then made a mental note to make fewer mental notes.

  “Caplets wouldn’t say so, but it sounded like the college took an unofficial position of looking the other way. As long as nobody got hurt, everybody would be happy.” Sam’s voice trailed off and he was lost somewhere in grief. Odd, but I could feel his grief and understood it. I shared it. When his eyes refocused, he whispered, “He said Harry died the same way. The trestle was covered with ice…” Sam stopped again, waiting for my reaction. I took a sip from my Coke and belched in his general direction. “You son of a…”

  “Pig,” Mary cut in.

  “So that makes you a pig’s sister? Which makes you a… pig?” Zing. Score one for me.

  “Harry’s dead, for pity’s sake. Can’t you be serious for once in your life?”

  “It won’t bring him back, will it?”

  “I hate you.” Mary glared at me.

  I shrugged. “So what else is new?”

  “The only problem is…” Sam’s voice became louder, drowning us out. “Harry would never belong to a fraternity or even pledge one. He didn’t like them. And he hated the cold. And he wasn’t stupid, like some people.”

  I ignored that last crack, obviously directed at me. “So, you think the whole story is bull?”

  “There’s no body, Tom.”

  “Nobody what?” I knew this would irritate him.

  “No body, no corpse. Idiot.”

  I liked him mad and frustrated. It would probably contribute to his later life high blood pressure and heart condition. “How do they know he fell then? There must have been a witness, someone with him who saw the whole thing. Something. Why didn’t you ask the Kenyon dopes about that?”

  Sam faltered. I guess he wasn’t as smart as he wanted us all to believe. He wasn’t anywhere near as clever as me when it came to creating alibis, establishing witnesses, and disguising motive and opportunity. I had years of experience incriminating them and knew all the angles. I had learned to think like Sherlock Holmes from my years of being the Moriarty in their lives. They, on the other hand, were too naïve and stupid, and would remain Inspector Lestrades forever. They didn’t stand a chance. I guess that’s why I will always the king and they just ordinary people.

  “I told you, Sam. That’s why we need Tom to go there and figure this out.” Kate’s remark came from so far out in left field it wasn’t even on the field. I turned to her. She focused on me and continued. “You’re the only one smart enough to find out what really happened, Tom. You’re clever and resourceful. You have all those years of acting like a little hoodlum and treating us all like stupid, ordinary people. You know all the angles, all the lies and excuses. You have to do this. You’re the only one who can. You have to go to Kenyon, Tom, please.”

  Was she a mind reader? Okay, so maybe she wasn’t as stupid as the rest of them. Maybe together they had somehow pooled their collective stupidity and had channeled it into a Frankenstein-like intellect in Kate that could dimly perceive my true power. Maybe… Maybe I’m so full of shit my eyes are brown and I’m just as ordinary and dumb as them. No. No way. That possibility didn’t exist in my universe. “What the hell can I do there that they can’t?”

  With an outspoken ally in Kate, Sam rejoined the fray. “For once in your life, do the right thing.”

  Chapter 5

  The right thing… Who decides what the right thing is anyway? Is there some good-and-evil-o-meter that points to right when you give five bucks in church and wrong when you chuck a water balloon into a car on Lover’s Lane in a 2:00 a.m. drive-by attack on prom night? You might think that was the wrong thing, but what would have happened if I had left Frankie Marx alone that night and he had gotten Bonnie Shoedel pregnant? What if I did it to save him from a fate worse than death? A teen marriage, a kid, a sure divorce, a ruined life? I could have performed that seemingly evil act for all the right reasons. Of course I didn’t, but that’s beside the point. The little jerk deserved a fate worse than a water bath with his t
ux on, but that was all I could muster on the spur of the moment. Word had it that I was pissed because Bonnie wouldn’t go with me to the prom and had vowed revenge. But who are they to judge my motives? Who are they to say what I did was wrong?

  Do we judge a person by their intentions and motives or by their actions? Why is it that people say that actions speak louder than words? That’s one of those philosophical questions that prompted me to avoid the philosophy/religion electives in college and take psychology/sociology instead. There was no question in my mind that people were too dumb to figure out why anyone did anything, let alone figure out what the right thing to do about it was. It’s way easier for them to hear the shouting actions than to make out the whispering intentions. But I am more interested in people’s motivations because I want to be able to exact revenge equally on those who hate me and are pretty good at getting me back, as well as those who hate me but are too incompetent to pull off any kind of successful retribution. The competent and incompetent alike should pay for their sins.

  Take Harry for example. With all the times I had tormented him, hurt him, bullied him; with all the nasty things I had done or tried to do to him growing up, surely he knew I hated his guts. And given this, I was perfectly justified in getting back at him at every opportunity — after all, he had every reason and the perfect motivation for getting back at me — so why wait for him to make the first strike? A pre-emptive strategy is always the best in war. You take far fewer casualties when you have the initiative and the plan being followed is your plan, not some half-baked, reactionary scheme brought together at the last minute, but a well-thought out plan of action that can take two, three, four years to devise until it is perfected. But none of that mattered now. Harry was dead and the war was over. I had won. Why didn’t I feel victorious?