The Clearing by Dan Newman

They’ll bring a gurney in, and they’ll take him to...”
    Nate stood and walked over to the La-Z-Boy, gathered up the blanket, and put it to his nose. It smelled stale and dusty, with a sharp edge of something long since spilled and dried. And it smelled of his father.
    â€œMr Mason?”
    â€œI gotta wash this,” he said quietly, heading for the kitchen.
    Kathy followed, but didn’t try to stop him. “Are you sure there’s no one I can call to come and be with you?”
    Nate stopped and the unreasonable agitation swept over him again. She was there to help, he knew. She was there to bridge the gap between law enforcement and family, and in all fairness she was doing a pretty damn decent job. And so when he turned and snapped at her, he knew she didn’t deserve it. “I already told you, there’s no one!”
    Kathy nodded calmly. “I understand.”
    â€œEverything OK here?” asked the policeman from before, edging his head around the kitchen wall.
    â€œWe’re fine,” said Kathy.
    Nate turned away and shoved the blanket into the small stacked washer/dryer in the corner, and busied himself figuring out how to turn it on.
    â€œSir, I need to ask you not to do that just now,” said the officer. He spoke in calm, almost apologetic tones. “Just not until the detectives have had a chance to check everything out. It’s just routine, but they’ll want to talk to you.”
    Something in that reached back into Nate’s own experience and echoed through him like a ghost in a far-off canyon. They’ll want to talk to you. It bounced hollowly around inside him, and then finally landed home: bright lights and ceiling fans, policemen in pressed uniforms, and parents with pinched, frightened faces anxiously imploring him to tell, tell, tell. For a brief moment he could almost feel the heat of the room, taste the moisture in the tropical air, and hear the anxious thud of his almost-thirteen year-old heart.
    â€œSir? Could I ask you to leave the blanket be?” repeated the officer.
    Nate looked down and let the present reclaim him. He was almost surprised to be standing there, looking down into the machine with the old brown blanket sitting inside. “Sure, sure,” he said, almost silently.
    Nate went back to the couch, flanked by Kathy from VS and the police officer, and sat quietly, thinking about his father, thinking about how tired and worn down he felt. This might all be too much , he thought. It might all be too much, too soon . He knew he hadn’t processed it yet, not really, and he knew from experience that that would come later.
    He closed his eyes for a moment and felt everything sag. Sleep was there if he wanted it. There were men at the door now, talking. He didn’t care. Nate kept his eyes closed and leaned back into the sofa. It was old and sprung, and sucked him in deeply. He felt himself going.
    The screen door banged and a voice cut through: “You gotta be fucking kidding me... Sarge, come here.”
    Nate could hear it, but he was too tired, too close to sleep. He let his eyes stay closed.
    The same voice: “Sarge, look – it’s that guy again.”
    Then another voice, quieter this time, as if trying not to be heard: “Oh shit,” said the second voice. It was heavy and full of sadness now. “You’re right. It’s that same poor bastard...”
    Â 
    Present Day  
    Â 
    The sight at the foot of Nate’s bed was too impossible, too outlandish for his brain to accept. And so where there should have been fear, there was only confusion. He blinked heavily and struggled to understand what he was seeing.
    The room was dark, lit only by the glow of the street lamps in Derek Walcott Square, and filtered again by the chiffon drapes at the window’s edge. Where it did fall into the room, the light pooled at the foot of the bed in a soft, diffused shimmer, backlighting the