the entire universe. Suddenly, Carl wanted to play very much.
“All right. I’ll be down.”
Ross left.
Five minutes later, Carl locked the closet and headed toward the back bay. Voices floated into the hall. “One, two, three . . . Ninja!”
Grinning, Carl detoured into his bay, worked his lock, secured his new key, started to close the locker, and paused, staring at the pictures hanging inside.
There was his mother, smiling at the Phillies game.
His eyes moved to the other picture. Mom again, Carl as a little kid, Dad.
He missed them terribly.
He looked at his mom’s smiling face and had to swallow hard to get rid of the lump in his throat. How could somebody so full of life die so young?
Cancer. That was how. Bad luck on a cosmic scale.
Dad looked bulletproof in his uniform. Not hardly, Carl thought. Not hardly.
The man who’d shot him was a schizophrenic with the ridiculous name of Wilson W. Wilson. Wilson and his wife had fought and separated, and he’d moved out on the street. For a while, he tried to get together again, but she refused. Then one summer night, Wilson W. Wilson forced his way into the apartment with a .38 Special handgun.
Neighbors heard shouting and called the police. Carl’s dad, who’d been just down the block when the call came through, was first to arrive. Wilson shot him four times as soon as he came through the door, reloaded his empty chambers, and proceeded to kill all three of his children and two neighbor boys, who’d only been in the apartment to play video games. Wilson explained to his wife that he wanted her to experiencethe loneliness she had forced upon him. Then he stuck the barrel in his own mouth and pulled the trigger, and that was that.
Somehow, Carl’s dad survived, but Carl knew he was never going to be the same. Even at eight, Carl understood that. He loved his dad. Almost worshipped him. Before the shooting, he was a loud, good-natured man, well-known and well-loved around Devil’s Pocket. He’d grown up in the Pocket, a comically wild Irish boy who’d made good in the end and upon whom they could always count on for help, whether that meant dealing with a kite stuck in a tree, or the sound of broken glass at midnight, or a murderous schizophrenic who’d decided to turn a broken marriage into a community bloodbath.
After the shooting, Carl’s dad couldn’t even help himself. Weather permitting, he spent his days on the front porch. His blank eyes stared from his swollen face. Scar tissue bunched the flesh where the second bullet had passed through his head, lifting one corner of his mouth in a humorless perma-smile.
Carl took care of him. He wanted to. Every moment he wasn’t in school, he sat with his father. He never resented this time, and he never bought into his mother’s concern that he was taking on too much, that he needed to step back a little, just be a boy. He helped care for his father in nearly every way, from feeding him to administering medication to helping him bathe. It wasn’t gross or funny or weird. It just was.
It broke his mother’s heart, but she couldn’t afford a nurse, not on the paltry disability check they got and what little she made waitressing at the diner. So Carl did much of the work, and when he wasn’t working, he sat with his father in case he needed anything.
The day the laughter started, Carl was on his way home from school with his friend Tommy, just coming onto their block. He heard laughter up ahead—mean laughter—and saw this big fifth-grader, Liam Reilly, and a couple of other kids, standing on the sidewalk, cracking up. Then he heard Liam say, “Check out the Spook.”
At first, Carl thought the older boy was using some stupid racial slur, which were about as common in the Pocket as songbirds were in the suburbs. But then he saw Liam laughing and making a face and looking up at Carl’s house. Up at the porch. Up at Carl’s dad.
The Spook .
Liam made his face look all goofy, even doing a
“All right. I’ll be down.”
Ross left.
Five minutes later, Carl locked the closet and headed toward the back bay. Voices floated into the hall. “One, two, three . . . Ninja!”
Grinning, Carl detoured into his bay, worked his lock, secured his new key, started to close the locker, and paused, staring at the pictures hanging inside.
There was his mother, smiling at the Phillies game.
His eyes moved to the other picture. Mom again, Carl as a little kid, Dad.
He missed them terribly.
He looked at his mom’s smiling face and had to swallow hard to get rid of the lump in his throat. How could somebody so full of life die so young?
Cancer. That was how. Bad luck on a cosmic scale.
Dad looked bulletproof in his uniform. Not hardly, Carl thought. Not hardly.
The man who’d shot him was a schizophrenic with the ridiculous name of Wilson W. Wilson. Wilson and his wife had fought and separated, and he’d moved out on the street. For a while, he tried to get together again, but she refused. Then one summer night, Wilson W. Wilson forced his way into the apartment with a .38 Special handgun.
Neighbors heard shouting and called the police. Carl’s dad, who’d been just down the block when the call came through, was first to arrive. Wilson shot him four times as soon as he came through the door, reloaded his empty chambers, and proceeded to kill all three of his children and two neighbor boys, who’d only been in the apartment to play video games. Wilson explained to his wife that he wanted her to experiencethe loneliness she had forced upon him. Then he stuck the barrel in his own mouth and pulled the trigger, and that was that.
Somehow, Carl’s dad survived, but Carl knew he was never going to be the same. Even at eight, Carl understood that. He loved his dad. Almost worshipped him. Before the shooting, he was a loud, good-natured man, well-known and well-loved around Devil’s Pocket. He’d grown up in the Pocket, a comically wild Irish boy who’d made good in the end and upon whom they could always count on for help, whether that meant dealing with a kite stuck in a tree, or the sound of broken glass at midnight, or a murderous schizophrenic who’d decided to turn a broken marriage into a community bloodbath.
After the shooting, Carl’s dad couldn’t even help himself. Weather permitting, he spent his days on the front porch. His blank eyes stared from his swollen face. Scar tissue bunched the flesh where the second bullet had passed through his head, lifting one corner of his mouth in a humorless perma-smile.
Carl took care of him. He wanted to. Every moment he wasn’t in school, he sat with his father. He never resented this time, and he never bought into his mother’s concern that he was taking on too much, that he needed to step back a little, just be a boy. He helped care for his father in nearly every way, from feeding him to administering medication to helping him bathe. It wasn’t gross or funny or weird. It just was.
It broke his mother’s heart, but she couldn’t afford a nurse, not on the paltry disability check they got and what little she made waitressing at the diner. So Carl did much of the work, and when he wasn’t working, he sat with his father in case he needed anything.
The day the laughter started, Carl was on his way home from school with his friend Tommy, just coming onto their block. He heard laughter up ahead—mean laughter—and saw this big fifth-grader, Liam Reilly, and a couple of other kids, standing on the sidewalk, cracking up. Then he heard Liam say, “Check out the Spook.”
At first, Carl thought the older boy was using some stupid racial slur, which were about as common in the Pocket as songbirds were in the suburbs. But then he saw Liam laughing and making a face and looking up at Carl’s house. Up at the porch. Up at Carl’s dad.
The Spook .
Liam made his face look all goofy, even doing a
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