Chapter 17
Christian pulled into the driveway and turned the car off. For several minutes, he stared forward, smiling. Finally, he pulled his coat and backpack out of the back seat and got out. He stopped when he caught sight of a glint of metal catching moonlight in the passenger’s seat. He reached over and pulled Clark’s Zippo from where it was lodged. He turned it over in his hand, smiled and pocketed it. When he looked up at the house, he saw a pale blue glow in one of the upstairs windows.
“Shit,” he grumbled and deflated. He unlocked the basement door, fumbling with his keys as he tried to be quiet. Finally, the lock clicked and he pushed the door open as quietly as he could. He navigated the darkened basement and took off his boots by the stairs before sneaking up them.
When he stepped into the upstairs hallway, his father’s voice came sternly out of the TV room on his right. “Christian! Get your ass in here now.”
He grimaced and walked slowly into the TV room, where his parents were curled on the couch. “Hi,” he said meekly, staring at the ground.
His mother sat up slowly as his father leaned forward. His father scowled at him for nearly a minute, and said, “Would you like to tell me what the hell you think you are doing?” His fingers clutched the knitted baby-blue blanket that covered the two of them. “I ought to kick your ass right now.”
“I... I...,” Christian stammered. He braced himself against the doorframe and took a step back.
“First, you decide you aren’t going to work after I told you that you couldn’t have tonight off. Then I get home to find out about what you did at school today. Could you kindly tell me what you were thinking?” He pulled the blanket back like he was about to get up. “How dare you disobey me like that?”
“I told you I wasn’t coming to work!” Christian snapped, dropping his backpack in the doorway. “You knew I had plans tonight. You knew that!” He took a step forward menacingly. “I have been planning his for months!”
“And I was just going to have a little talk with you and drop it. At most, I was going to threaten to ground you. You were going to get off easy.” He took a deep breath and clenched his fist. “Then I got home and I found out about that shit you pulled at school!” He looked at Christian’s mother sitting against him, her face blank. “You’re lucky your mother talked to those people from school and instead of me. I would have told them to keep you there another year, just so you could spend every day in detention! What are you thinking? Walking out of detention? Threatening a teacher? What is up with that? Didn’t I raise you better?”
“Mr. Henry is out to get me!” Christian protested. “Whenever anyone does anything to me, he stands up for them!”
“Well maybe you should stop trying so hard to be different. Maybe then he wouldn’t be so hard on you, would he?” his father snapped.
Christian turned away and started to walk out of the room. “Why does everyone want me to fit in so badly?” he wailed. “Why can’t I just be myself? Why do I have to be something I’m not?”
“Get back in here!” his father shouted. When Christian obliged, he said, “So this is what you are?” Mr. Duke got up out of his chair. “Some kind of ghoul? Are you one of those devil-kids we see on the news? Are you worshiping Satan and listening to that Marilyn Manson shit?”
“No!” he wailed. “I’m not like them either! I stand for something!” he stomped out of the room as his father ordered him back. He ran to his bedroom and slammed the door. He turned on the light, revealing walls covered with Misfits posters.
His father threw open the door, exploding into the room and pushing Christian down on his bed. “Don’t you ever walk away from me when I’m talking to you!” he bellowed. “Do you understand me?”
“Just leave me alone!” Christian pleaded. “Just let me go to bed!”
“No!” Mr. Duke wailed. “I’m so angry that I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight, so why should you? You’re just lucky that I’m not sending your ass to school tomorrow. You can thank your mother for that. Of course with the way you turned out, you’d probably just skip the whole day and sleep anyway,” he said, turning away.
“Fuck you!” Christian cried.
His father turned back. “Excuse me?” he hissed.
“What do you mean, ‘the way I turned out?’ Are you angry that your son has a mind of his own? Are you angry that I think for myself, that I just don’t follow along like all the rest of the kids in that fucking school? Are you upset that I’m not just another zombie like the rest of them? Would you rather I’m a clone... just like you were?”
His father took a deep breath and balled his hands into fists. “Boy, I ought to put your head through that goddamn wall. How dare you speak to me that way? I’m upset that the boy I spent eighteen years trying to make into a good person would rather spend time with all the world’s garbage than do something for himself.”
Christian rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. “Just leave me alone,” he wept.
His father stared at him for a moment, his lips tight. “What you do get to do tomorrow is show up to work. I found out today that the inventory is all messed up, and guess who gets to help me find out where everything is!” He smiled ruefully and walked out of the room.
“I know where it is,” Christian whispered. He laid on his bed, listening to his father walking around in the kitchen, and the hushed tones of his parents talking.
“It’s like I don’t know my own son anymore,” his father said loudly, stepping into the hall. His mother said something unheard, and his father went into the kitchen.
Christian struggled out of the trench coat and pushed it off the bed, where it landed in a heap.
A few minutes later, his father returned. He stood in the doorway a moment and said, “I don’t know what has gotten into you, but it’s time to grow up. You can’t act like this forever.” He forced a half smile. “Come on, sit up, you’re getting that shit all over your pillow. Your mother is going to have a hell of a time cleaning it.” He sighed and released a forced chuckle. “You want to give me one reason why I shouldn’t ground you for the whole summer?”
“Because I’m not going to be here,” Christian snapped, turning his head so his words to make his words audible.
His father gave a surprised grimace. “Oh... Really?” he asked, his voice slightly surprised. Where are you going to be?”
“Who knows,” Christian said. “Anywhere but here.”
His father shrugged. “As long as you show up to work on time.”
“That’s the best you could do?” Christian cried. “I tell you I’m leaving and all you can say is, ‘Show up to work on time?” He rolled over and sat up. “Don’t you fucking care about me?”
“What am I supposed to say, Christian?” his father asked, sounding tired. “You’re eighteen, you’re an adult, I can’t forbid you from moving out!” He leaned against the doorway. “If you think this is going to make you happy, I don’t want to stand in your way. You’re old enough to make your own decisions, but you’re also old enough to suffer the consequences too.”
“You’re just glad to see me go!” Christian said. “You’ve wanted me out of here for years, and now I’ll finally be out of your hair!”
“You know, Christian,” his father said. “The world is only against you because you want them to be.”
“Maybe that’s because I don’t like them.”
“Maybe you’re just trying to be cool,” his father said. He pulled the door closed and his footsteps went down the hall.
Christian lay on the bed for a long time, staring at the phosphorescent stars on the ceiling. The television went off and his parents went into the room next to his. He lay motionless for a long time after. Finally, he slipped out of bed and crept out of his room and descended into the basement.
He went to the back corner of the room and pulled the top mattress off the bed and took out one of the pistols. He carefully loaded it out of one of the bullet boxes and slammed the clip into the handle. He chambered a round and aimed it at the wall, staring down the barrel with one eye closed.
He tip-toed back up the stairs and down the hall to his parents’ bedroom door. He stood there, his free hand on the door handle, looking at the gun in the light shining out of his bedroom. He took three deep breaths and started to turn the door handle.
“Christian?” his mother called from inside. “Are you up?”
“Yeah, mom,” he said, letting his weapon-hand fall to his side.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Going to bed,” he responded.
“Good night,” she called back.
“‘Night,” he said. He crept back down the stairs and got his guitar case off the chair. He took the guitar out and put the shot gun and a box of shells in. He put in two PVC pipe bombs and several boxes of bullets. He pulled out four duffel bags, weighed down by their contents. He put them on the floor next to the bed. He laid out four identical pistols on the bar, loaded them, and put two in hip belts, and the other two in shoulder holsters. Finally, he pulled out a radio control and put it in the guitar case. He slung the case and pistols over his shoulders, picked up the duffel bags and went up the stairs. He put them all down next to his bed and climbed in. He lay with his eyes open for a long time.
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