They say it thunders before it rains. That is the feeling I got when Peter walked into the house on Thursday. I should probably have kept my mouth shut, but he was my sweet, lovely Peter and I only knew his face with a smile on it. By then, I had no idea what he was capable of.
“Hey, what’s up,” I asked, getting up from the couch to help him with his coat.
“Nothing,” he muttered, his scowl getting darker.
“It doesn’t look like nothing. Come on you can tell me,” I persisted.
I had never known Peter to weigh others down with his problems or worries. I thought it was because his sweet nature helped to limit the adversities he had to face. And that is why whenever he seemed downcast, I paid more attention to him than I did my other children.
Once, Patti, my youngest, had accused me of babying Peter long after he was ready to fly the coop. I protested feebly, and then proceeded to make a plate for him.
“Peter…” I prompted, in typical mother hen fashion, as my son walked across the living room and plopped himself on the cushions before the television. This time, it wasn’t just my need to mother someone that was driving my nagging. It was the look on his face, the deadness in his eyes, and the cold set of his mouth. I was feeling a sense of foreboding, getting nervous every minute too.
“Mama, leave it alone!” He said curtly and turned up the volume on the set.
“Alright then.” I let it go and busied myself making dinner.
Two hours later, dinner was ready and Peter was still flipping nervously through the channels. That was another odd thing. He is a reader. He derides his sister and me for watching daytime soap operas. He says that our heads will become all airy if we believe in that “Knight in shining armor” nonsense. He says we ought to read a good book now and then; we’ll be surprised how our world view will change. And now here he was, staring non-stop. Flipping and flipping and flipping.
“Dinner is ready,” I announced. He didn’t hear me.
“Peter!”
“Leave me the hell alone,” he growled, inching closer to the television.
As soon as I saw what was being broadcast, I felt another wave of foreboding flooding my insides. There was a melee of people at a crime scene. A female reporter picked her way through the crowd of people, her progress being recorded by her cameraman as he followed her. Then the camera swung away from the back of her head to the body lying on the pavement. It was already covered with a blanket, leaving only the feet, which were decked out in a pair of bright pink Adidas high-tops.
“A heinous murder has been committed here today. Wilson Street Garden, which is a popular hangout for young teenagers from the neighboring St. Paul’s academy, is where this fifteen year old may have lost her life.” The voice of the female reporter droned on as the cameraman captured scenes from Wilson Street Garden. Policemen were milling about, securing tape and keeping an eye on the curious onlookers. Some youngsters, maybe students at St. Paul’s academy, stood around looking dazed, some with their hands on their heads, others with tears streaming down their faces.
I looked over at Peter; ready to tell him how sorry I was about this terrible thing that had happened at his school. He had this curious little smile on his face. I immediately had a flashback of my cousin Vinnie at thirteen years, when he had caught a bird that had broken its wing and plucked off its feathers one at a time. He had had the same cruel smile on his face. It chilled me to the bone.
“Do you know what happened? Is that why you were upset?” I asked Peter, trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice.
“Why would I know?”
“It’s a girl from your school?”
“Whatever!”
He continued staring at the screen until his dinner got cold. I wished that I hadn’t sent Patti off to her aunt’s. I felt like there was a stranger sitting in the living room.
**
I go to visit Peter every other Saturday. He may get off earlier for good behavior, and he has now undergone psychiatric treatment for the three years he’s been in the juvenile home. He had just turned sixteen when the police came knocking on the door. I wasn’t surprised. The girl’s name was Marie, an immigrant whose parents had come from Zimbabwe. She was only fifteen years old. I still don’t know why he did it.
