Hero–Type (29 page)

I saw it. I saw him moving toward her. From behind a Dumpster.

I jumped him just as he was about to grab her and stick her with the needle. I did that.

But ... but you see ... I
saw
him. I had maybe a minute. A
full minute.
Do you know how
long
a minute is? It's
forever.

A minute when he didn't see me. When no one knew I was there.

And I just
watched.

I watched him approach her. I saw the needle. I knew what he was going to do, what was going to happen. And I did
nothing.
For a full
minute.

I watched. And when Leah screamed, it was like I suddenly realized that this was
real.
This was
live.
It wasn't on one of my tapes. It was happening. Leah was about to be drugged and raped and murdered.

And I just stood there! Watching it!

It would have been so easy just to stand there and keep watching. To keep
taping.
Just let it happen. Take no action. I mean, that's what I've always done—nothing. So it would have been easy to keep doing exactly that.

And end up with a videotape of Leah's abduction to go in my creepy, screwed-up voyeur's collection.

I am actually
worse
than Michael Alan Naylor. At least he had the balls to act on his own. Me? I didn't move a muscle until Leah screamed.

And I have a videotape to prove it.

I
T'S NOT ENOUGH TO FEEL BAD
about what I've done. It's not enough to hate myself for it.

As long as those tapes exist, I'll always be tempted to look at them, to watch those stolen moments of Leah walking the halls at school, sitting at lunch—any place and any time I was able to catch her.

"Stolen moments" is the perfect way to put it, actually. Because she didn't know. She didn't say it was OK. I just did it.

I break my own cardinal rule about never throwing away anything incriminating at home. I just can't bear another
second
with those damn tapes in existence. Every time I look at them, I think of me, skulking around, in the shadows. A damn stalker. I can't handle it.

So I crack the cases under my foot. I pull out the tape and crumple it up and then make sure to break it in several places. It's several twisted messes by the time I'm done with them all.

Dad asks about them, of course. Sees them in the trash. Of course.

"The machine ate them," I lie.

He's holding up a handful of tape like it's a dead cat. "Did the machine break the cases, too?"

"I got pissed." I shrug.

"What was on here?"

"Old Ravens games."

Dad regards me for a second, then tsks. "Watch your temper, Kevin."

When I'm alone, I sit there for a long time, looking at the new stickers, the broken camera, the picture. And this is what I realize: You can't go forward until you've dealt with what-ever's behind you. It would be the easiest thing in the world to run to California, but that would accomplish nothing.

I don't know what to do next. But I think I know where I can find out.

It's weird being back at Sacred Heart after so long. It's been at least a year since I've gone to Mass. I slip in just as the evening service is starting and slide into a pew way in the back so no one sees me.

And, man! It's funny how it feels so familiar. Like I never went away. Father McKane starts off with the greeting and I'm doing the ole north-south-east-west like I never stopped.

"The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all," he says, and I don't even need to look down at the missal because I'm already saying, "And also with you." Like no time has passed at all.

I think about that night at SAMMPark, when I told Tit about Leah. Maybe God
has
been watching me. Maybe it's just that I couldn't understand what it meant. That I was
supposed
to tape Leah at the Burger Joint and become obsessed. And then I was
supposed
to follow Leah to the library. Maybe it's like I was
sent
or something. All so that I could become a hero and then fall from grace and learn a lesson about real heroism. All to protect her, regardless of what came next.

Or maybe it was all coincidence and accident, but maybe coincidence and accident is how God works. Maybe those are his tools.

"Let us acknowledge our failures," Father McKane is saying, "and ask the Lord for pardon and strength."

And the words spill out of me:

"I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I sinned through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do..."

And that's the kicker, really. It's the stuff we
don't
do that kills us, in the end. It's when we don't tell people things, like me not telling Leah how I felt for so long. That's what led to the rest of it.

I let the readings and the Gospel wash over me. Always liked this part—the part when stories are told. And then the sermon, where Father McKane ties it all together and makes all of those stories relevant somehow. With Easter coming up, he talks a lot about resurrection, about renewal, which is cool with me because I feel like I've been resurrected, in some ways. If not reset, then at least given a new lease on life.

And here's the thing about resurrection—it's not a chance to start over. You don't come out of the tomb and say, "Great! Forget all of that stuff I did before; now I'm a whole new person." No, you're the same person—you just have a chance to be
better.
You get the chance to fix the things you screwed up, the things that would have stayed screwed up if you hadn't come back. Like, when Jesus came back, he didn't go off and play piano in a bar somewhere, right? No, he picked up where he left off and kept teaching, just in a different way.

And I realize that this is what
I
need to do. I can't let Crazy J's temper tantrum sweep away anything I might accomplish. People—especially high-schoolers, but people in general, re-ally—have short attention spans. But that doesn't mean that I should stop talking. It just means I have to keep getting their attention.

So that's what I'm going to do. My argument, my debate, my
fight,
didn't end when Crazy J decked a teacher. It just moved into a new phase. I'm not sure what that phase is yet, but I know it's there.

I'm one guy, and look at what I stirred up just by asking questions about these things. Imagine what two people could do. Or three. Or ten.

Or four hundred and twenty-seven.

And then Father McKane snaps me back to the present by saying the prayers over the gifts and then we're all giving each other the sign of peace. There are startled looks as people realize it's me, that I'm right here, right here in church. But no one turns away.

And then we're lining up for communion. When it's my turn, Father McKane's eyes crinkle as he grins.

"The body of Christ," he says.

"Amen."

I take the wafer and slip it into my mouth. Walking back to my seat, I'm suddenly aware of how everyone is watching me. But that's OK. I've dealt with worse.

At the end of the Mass, I wait and watch as everyone files out, shaking hands with Father McKane and chatting with him before going on. It's an evening service, though, so it's not that crowded and pretty soon everyone's gone except for him and me.

"Kevin." He smiles at me. "Good to see you again."

And he's like the only person to say
that
to me in a while.

"Do you have time to hear a confession, Father?" Better get it out before I lose my nerve.

He nods. "Of course, Kevin. Of course."

And so here I am in the confessional, that little box that Mom used to call the "outhouse of sins" when Dad wasn't listening.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been..." And here's the ironic part about confession—it really tempts you to
lie.
To lie about what you did or didn't do. Even to lie about how long it's been since your last confession. I figure that's why you start off saying how long it's been—to confront the temptation to lie right up front and get it out of your system.

"It's been fourteen months since my last confession." I feel really,
really
bad saying it. Fourteen months is a
long
time and I can't even remember all of the many sins I'm sure I've committed since then. I tell this to Father McKane.

"I remember the big stuff, sure, but I'm sure there's a lot of stuff in there that I'm just not remembering. So I can't confess to it, so I can't be forgiven, which means I'm damned, right?"

"If you're truly sorry in your heart, God will forgive you
all
your sins, Kevin. Let's hit the big stuff, OK?"

"OK."

Deep breath.

Second temptation to lie.

Avoid it.

I tell
him
about California. About Mom's offer, about how I wanted to take it. About uncharitable thoughts toward Dad—that's a commandment right there, not honoring thy father and mother, you know?

I'm stalling, I realize.

I tell him about the pranks with Officer Sexpot. (I don't call her Officer Sexpot to
him—he's
a priest!) He makes a little strangled sound that I think is a laugh, but I don't know.

Yeah, stalling.

What's the point?

So, I tell him...

"There's this girl..."

And I tell him everything.
Everything.
Right down to the videotape and the stalking. This is the big stuff—you've got multiple commandments, here, from lying ("bearing false witness") to stealing to coveting.
Bigtime
coveting. I'm in the Hall of Fame for Coveting, tell the truth. They build statues to me there. Which—crap!—is like a false idols thing. Damn, another commandment!

"And you destroyed this tape?" Father McKane asks. He's very serious now. Usually he's a pretty happy-go-lucky guy, which is one reason why I've always been cool with confession. Then again, I've never confessed to anything truly horrible.

"Yes, Father. All of them."

"And you have no intention of making another one?"

"I couldn't even if I wanted to. The camera's busted."

"I ... see."

"But even if it wasn't," I say in a rush, "I wouldn't do it anyway. I've learned my lesson. I've figured it out. It was wrong. I didn't think I was hurting anyone, but that doesn't mean it was OK to do it. And I see how it can lead to other stuff that's not so cool."

And then there's a long silence. So long that I start to think he's fallen asleep or something, so I press my face real close to the screen between us and try to make out his face, but of course I can't, which is the whole
point
of the screen in the first place. This is all supposed to be anonymous, but it never is.

"You've had an interesting fourteen months since the last time we spoke," he says suddenly.

"It's been the last month or so that's been
really
interesting."

"Yes. I follow the papers."

More silence. Is he waiting for me to confess to the magnets? The bridge support? The burning flags? All of that stuff? Because I won't. No way, no how. Most of it I wasn't involved in, but the stuff I
was
involved in, I believe with all my heart. No way in the world I'll apologize for it. Not to him. Not even to God.

"I can absolve you for most of this, Kevin. But you know ... you can't look outside of yourself for authority. For forgiveness. God forgives, but first we must forgive ourselves. Before this has all been made right in God's eyes, there's something you need to do. Think of it as your penance. It's the only way you'll ever feel better about this again."

I know exactly what he means.

S
O HERE
I
AM, SITTING IN MY CAR
at the end of Leah Muldoon's driveway. My stomach's a mess of acid and grinding. It's like I've swallowed rocks and my gut is doing its best to digest them, but they won't break down, so they just keep colliding against each other and churning and rolling.

The picture of Leah is like a hot coal in my pocket.

I close my eyes and try to make it better. I try to imagine a happy ending.

I give her the picture and she says,
I don't understand. You ... Of all people, you could have had this. All you had to do was ask me.

And then...

And then she rushes into my arms ...

Throws herself at me ...

Peppers my face with kisses ...

But probably not.

That's what I'd
like
to have happen. What I fantasize, what I dream. But let's face it, the world just doesn't work that way. And it has nothing to do with anything. It just
is.