Children of Paranoia (37 page)

Suddenly, the kid spoke. “Your child doesn't belong with him, Maria,” he said to you. He spoke directly to you. “Your child is one of us. Your child can have a chance to do something good for the world.”

Hearing his words, you began to cry. You placed your hand over your stomach, as if to protect your baby. You leaned over, placing your other hand on the dented trunk of our car. You sobbed, stopping momentarily to try to catch your breath. Then your words came out. Angry words directed at the kid. “What did we ever do to you?” you cried out. “Why can't you just leave us alone?” You sobbed again, bending over. When you caught your breath again, you repeated more quietly, “Why can't you just leave us alone?” Then, looking down at the kid, kneeling in the rain, covered in mud, as if the question could end it all, you said again, “What did we ever do to you?”

“That bastard,” the kid replied, pointing at me, having the audacity to point at me while I aimed a loaded gun at his head, “that bastard killed my older brother.” He spoke to you as if I weren't even there. “He came into my house”—the kid's voice rose in anger—“when I was thirteen years old. He came into my house when my brother and I were home alone. He grabbed me first because my brother was upstairs. He grabbed me and he tied my hands and feet together and he put masking tape over my mouth. Then he went upstairs and I listened as he strangled my big brother to death.” The kid kept pointing at me as he spoke. “That's what he fucking did to me.” That's why the kid had gotten the package. That's why I recognized the kid. His brother was my third job. He lived in Cincinnati, a good three hours from where we were. I don't remember why he was a target.

You didn't respond. It was all too much. I began to worry about the baby. I had to end it. The kid kept going, “Your baby, Maria, your baby can be better than that.” I'd heard enough. It was my baby too. I hauled off and kicked the kid in the face. His body jerked to the side and he fell face-first into the mud. Slowly, he struggled back up onto his hands and knees. I hated him at that moment. He was trying to convince you to leave me. He didn't even care if he died.

“Because you're not a killer?” I finally yelled at him. He was just like me when I was his age.

He lifted up his head, and for the first time in minutes, he looked at me again. His eyes were filled with scorn, his voice filled with hate. “I'm not like you,” he said. “I'm righteous.” I pulled the trigger. The shot rang out through the night air as if it would echo for days. The kid's head jerked back. Then his body fell forward into the mud, motionless. I immediately regretted it. For the first time I could remember, I felt remorse.

You screamed. Then you ran off into the darkness. You made it maybe twenty feet before falling to the ground. I could hear a retching sound coming from the darkness as you threw up into the mud. I started to walk after you. I stepped out of the beam of light. Once out of the light, the darkness wasn't so complete. Though they were still difficult to see, I could make out outlines, shapes, and shadows in the grayness surrounding us. I could see your form, hunched over on the ground. I stepped closer to you. Suddenly you stood up and turned around. You extended your arms out toward me. At first I thought you were going to reach out to hug me. Then I realized that you had stumbled upon the kid's gun.

You held the gun in front of you. You aimed the gun directly at my chest. I stopped walking. I didn't dare move any closer to you. I wasn't sure what you were capable of at that moment. You were still crying. You didn't want me near you. “Why did you do it, Joe?” you cried. Your hair, straightened by the rain, hung over your shoulders. Your wet clothes clung to you.

“I had to, Maria.” You let out an audible cry when I spoke. “I know you think I had a choice, but I didn't. It doesn't stop with him, Maria. If we let him go, he tells everyone where we are. He tells everyone where we are and it's over. We're trapped.”

My logic didn't mean anything to you. Killing still didn't make sense to you. “You promised me you'd stop killing, Joe.” I had. I'd meant it when I said it. That was four corpses ago.

“I didn't want to kill him, Maria.” I went to take another step toward you.

“Don't, Joe.” You lifted the gun, changing your aim from my chest to my head. “Don't come near me, Joe.”

“Please, Maria. Please come back to the car. You're sopping wet. You're cold. We need to get you into some dry clothes. We need to get you warm. This isn't good for the baby.”

“Don't, Joe.”

“Please, Maria. Come back now. Get warm. Get dry. If you want to leave me in the morning, I'll take you anywhere you want to go.” You reluctantly dropped your arm down to your side. You didn't walk toward me. You walked past me toward the car. I followed a few steps behind you. Before you climbed into the backseat of the car, you took one last look at the kid's body, sprawled out, lying facedown in the mud. Then you threw his gun back into the darkness.

I went back to the kid's body. I picked him up and carried him to his car. I opened the back door and laid his body down on the backseat. I took off my jacket and my shirt and used my shirt to wipe the mud off the kid's face. The bullet had gone in and out through the sides of his head. His face was untouched. Once I had gotten the mud off his face, I reached into the front of the car and turned off the one working headlight. I put my jacket back on, leaving my shirt in the mud next to the car. “I'm sorry, kid,” I said to his lifeless body. “I'm sorry about your brother too.” Then I closed the car door, leaving the kid's body sheltered from the rain in the backseat, and walked back to our car. On the way, I picked up the papers and the pictures that were strewn on the ground. I left the backpack. I left the money. I didn't feel right taking it anymore even though we needed it. I left everything that couldn't incriminate us. I threw the papers and the pictures in our now dented trunk, not wanting to leave evidence lying there in the mud. The damage to our car was minimal, little enough that it shouldn't arouse suspicion. They had pictures of our car, though. We'd have to trade it soon.

 

 

You didn't speak to me for the next three days, but you didn't leave me either.

We made it all the way to Charleston, South Carolina, the day after I killed the kid in Ohio. I drove through the night. You eventually fell asleep in the backseat of the car. I knew as soon as we met the kid that Chicago was no longer an option. We'd left New Jersey and pretty much driven in a straight line leading directly to Chicago. Once they found the kid's body, it wouldn't take them long to guess where we were headed. We had to change course.

I had never been to Charleston. That was the draw. I'd never done a job there, never taught a class. I'd driven past it but never stopped. As far as I knew, no one in Charleston had a reason to want me dead. If they were to find us in Charleston, they'd have to come looking for us. I hoped it was a big enough city that I could find a job and we could still disappear.

We made it to Charleston with about two hundred dollars and a smashed-up car. We still had some food left, but that was starting to run low too. We needed to find a new car. We needed to figure out a way to make some money. I was willing to work but my list of marketable skills was painfully deficient. I wasn't about to start killing people for money. It wasn't right. Besides, I'd made a promise to you. We'd need a place to stay. I'd need to be able to clean myself up if I expected to find any sort of work. But I was afraid to stay in any one place for too long. I decided on a three-night rule. We wouldn't stay at any one place for more than three nights. We'd keep moving. It was all I could think of for us to do. We couldn't keep changing cities, not without cash. I would have let you in on my plans but you weren't talking to me. I figured you needed time. I think seeing what you saw in Ohio finally drove everything home for you. This was real. We spent the first night in a cheap motel about forty miles outside of Charleston. We went into the city during the day, trying to scope it out and see if I could find work.

During our second day in Charleston, you finally spoke to me again. “What do you think happened to him?” you asked me. We were sitting on a bench in the Waterfront Park. I was flipping through the help-wanted ads in one of the free local papers. You had a blank expression on your face. At first I was afraid to say anything. I simply looked at you, scared that anything I might say would make you stop talking again. You stared off into the ocean. “I mean, what do you think happened to his body?” There wasn't sadness in your voice anymore, just curiosity.

“If his parents and friends haven't realized that he's missing yet, they will soon. They'll send people out looking for him. Eventually, someone will stumble upon the body. The police will be called in. With no suspects and no motive, they'll just write it off as another unsolved murder, a random act of violence. His parents, his family, they'll know the truth.” A cool wind blew in from the ocean. It smelled of rotting fish.

“And they'll have lost another son,” you said, looking at me, searching for any remorse.

“Yeah,” I said, the guilt that I'd felt after shooting the kid coming back. The guilt felt good. The guilt was beginning to make me feel human.

“And that's why we're in Charleston and not Chicago?”

“And that's why we're in Charleston and not Chicago,” I confirmed.

You didn't ask any more questions, not yet. You'd done enough talking for the time being.

 

 

After two nights in a motel, we spent two nights sleeping in the car. We tried to keep the car off any main roads. I still hadn't figured out how to get a new car. Our supplies were running low and so was our cash. Four days in Charleston and I hadn't found work yet. But it was four days without incident. That was progress in my book. Four days in Charleston. We would make it almost four months. Maybe the next place we'll make it five months, then six, and then, eventually they'll forget us and we'll be able to settle down.

The job search was painful. I'd known it would be. I had no papers, let alone skills. The only thing I had going for me was the fact that I was willing to work cheap. I knew I had to start somewhere. Even in the War, I'd started at the bottom. So every day I pounded the pavement, walking into places unsolicited and asking for work or answering ads in the papers for unskilled labor. I wasn't having any luck. They'd look me over, a twenty-five-year-old guy with no history, no backstory, and every one of them balked. I can't say that I blame them. I reeked of trouble. I could smell it on myself.

I'd always known that starting a new life wasn't going to be easy. I just hadn't expected every single person that I met to remind me of that. After three days we agreed that you should start looking for work too. I wasn't too happy about having you out in the world alone, but we needed the cash and you seemed a lot more innocent than I did. You were still less than two months pregnant. You weren't showing yet. We both knew that changes were going to start happening quick, though. I couldn't ask you to sleep in the car much longer. It was uncomfortable enough as it was. As your stomach grew, it would only get worse. We needed to find you a bed, even if it was a different bed every few nights.

 

 

After you'd spent a couple days looking for jobs, we decided to rent a room at a hotel outside the city. There was a local bus stop outside. The hotel wasn't extravagant by any standards, but it was still a hit to our dwindling supply of money. The money was running short but we needed the hotel room. You needed to rest. I needed to shower.

You were already in the hotel room when I got home from another day of rejection. I remember putting the key in the door, hearing nothing but silence from inside. I remember thinking that you must still be out, braving the rejection better than I was.

I turned the knob on the door and pushed my way inside. You were sitting upright on the edge of the bed. Your hands were in your lap and you were staring at the wall. The television was off. You didn't budge when I opened the door. You could have been a mannequin, based on how much you moved. I stepped beside you so that I could get a look at what you were staring at. Behind the television set, above the dresser, was a mirror. You were staring at yourself in the mirror.

“You okay?” I asked.

“No,” you replied, your voice flat, your eyes still dry.

“What happened?” I asked. You took your eyes off your reflection and moved them onto me.

“I don't know if I can do this, Joe.”

“What happened?” I asked again.

“Who is that, Joe?” you asked, pointing toward your reflection in the mirror.

“That's Maria,” I responded, taking your face in my hands and kissing you on your forehead. “That's Maria. That will always be Maria.”

“Then why do I call myself by another name when I meet strangers?” you asked. We had agreed to start using pseudonyms. It was safer.

“The name you call yourself doesn't change who you are.”

“But I don't recognize myself, either, Joe. It's not just the name. I walk down the street and people look at me and they don't see me. They see someone else.” I knew you were telling the truth. I'd been living with that for most of my life. There were only a handful of people in the world who looked at me and saw
me
. Everyone else saw a mirage, an illusion. Your life had become that way now too. It hurt me to see it, but to the world, your identity had to be a secret now. To me, you'll always be Maria.