“It’s not possible,” Miro cried out, trying to turn away from her. But there was no place to go, no way he could escape her or her words.
“Why not?” Kate said, telling herself to keep talking, keep on going. She had drawn blood again, gained time, caught him off guard, off balance again. “Didn’t you say he found you in the camps and brought you to that school? Would a stranger do that? Maybe he’d been looking for you and your brother all those years. Why did he take you to a place where you’d be safe, taken care of? And why did he come back for you later? Would he have done all that if he wasn’t your father? If he was just a stranger?”
“My father died. With my mother. Long ago. When a mine exploded,” Miro insisted, but there was doubt in his voice now.
“But you didn’t see them die. Somebody told your brother and your brother told you.”
Artkin his father? He could not acknowledge that truth, if it were truth. Because there was a worm crawling in his heart, a worm that said he had been responsible for Artkin’s death. He had betrayed Artkin, had reached for the girl instead of warning him of the approaching soldiers on the bridge. He had chosen the girl and his own safety over Artkin, Artkin who had been everything to him and now even his father.
A cry rose out of him, from the depths of his being, a cry that went beyond sorrow and pain and anguish, flowing from the body as blood must flow from a wound. The sound enveloped Kate so that she became part of his cry. He lifted his face from hers. His head thrown back, he wailed at the air the way an animal mortally wounded must announce its final desperate moments.
Kate cradled him, moving one free arm to embrace him. His wailing formed a word now as it rose from the hiding place, bursting out of the enclosure. Aaaarrttkinnnnnnn! Rising and then dying in the air, lingering as only a faint echo in the ears. Kate rocked him gently, the way she had rocked the children on the bus, crooning softly, a song without a tune, words without meaning, but sounds to bring him comfort and solace. She closed her eyes, enfolding him, enclosing him with her body, with her warmth and her breath, her sweat and her urine.
When he squeezed the trigger, the bullet smashed her heart, and she was dead within seconds.
When Kate Forrester was nine years old, she almost choked to death. A chunk of meat caught in her throat. For one terrible moment, she was stiff with terror, her throat jammed with the meat, unable to move, her breath cut off so swiftly and completely between inhale and exhale that she could not even gasp, but could only try to rise to her feet, eyes bulging, mouth frozen open. She could not move, could not utter a sound, was paralyzed, silent, and thought: I am dying and nobody knows although they’re here at the table with me, my mother and father. And then at the moment when suffocation threatened, and the room began to grow dim and far away, the lodged meat somehow, miraculously, loosened. And she coughed and retched, and the meat came up into her mouth, freeing her, unlocking her bones and muscles, allowing the air to rush into her lungs, and she was instantly bathed in a cool perspiration that glistened on her skin. With the breath came a sense of reprieve, the sweet knowledge that she was not going to die after all, she was going to live. Life, the act of being alive and able to draw breath, was suddenly unbearably beautiful, like music within her. She was safe. Safe. But not this time.
This time, everything had stopped the way a watch stops, and the pain was her body and her body was the pain and she knew exactly what had happened and was going to happen. The gun had gone off. She was caught again between inhale and exhale. The pain … wow … breath-caught dying mommy and daddy I can’t breathe and nobody to tell me if I was bra …
part
11
Hello, Dad.
Ben, you’re here. You’re back.
Yes, I’m here. You’ve been looking for me, haven’t you?
For so long, Ben.
How long, Dad? Weeks? Months?
Too long, much too long.
But I was always here. Didn’t you know that, Dad?
Sometimes I thought you were.
You just didn’t look long enough or deep enough.
I tried, Ben.
Did you try hard enough?
I did everything I could, Ben.
Did you really want to bring me back?
Yes, of course.
Maybe you were fooling yourself. Or fooling me. Or is there a difference?
Don’t play games, Ben.
I’m not playing games, Dad. I’m just wondering if you really wanted to bring me back. I came back before.
But I didn’t know.
Yes, you knew. Look at the papers there, near the typewriter. You see? That was me.
But I didn’t see you. I only saw the papers.
I had to leave, but now I’m back again.
And I’m glad, Ben, glad.
Don’t you want to know where I’ve been?
You don’t have to tell me, Ben.
Because you already know, don’t you?
Don’t say that, Ben.
I want you to say it.
Say what?
Where I’ve been. Where I’ve come back from.
But I can’t say it.
Yes, you can.
I don’t want to say it.
Too bad, too bad. It took so long to bring me back. All that time. All that time staring out the window and all that time awake at night when even the pills didn’t put you to sleep. All that time and now you don’t want to say it.
I can’t say it.
Yes, you can. Try, at least.
Why should I?
Because you owe me that much. Now tell me where I’ve come from.
All right, then.
From where?
Me. From me.
Where in you?
Deep inside.
So deep it was hard to bring me back, wasn’t it?
Yes, it was hard.
But now I’m here, aren’t I?
Please go back, Ben. Go back.
But I just got here. And it took so long, so long to bring me back. But now I’m here. And you’re here. At last.
Go back, Ben.
But why should I go back when you tried so hard to bring me here?
Because I’m tired, Ben. So tired.
Why did you want to bring me back, Dad?
You know why, Ben. You know.
Do I?
Yes.
But tell me. I want to hear you say it.
I wanted to ask you to forgive me. For what I did to you. On the bridge.
And what did you do?
I was serving my country. I am a patriot, Ben. I did it for my country. Not for myself.
I know you did it for your country, Dad. But I’m your son.
And I love you.
But tell me what you did for your country.
I sent you to the bridge. To the van. It was a vital situation and you were the choice.
Why me, Dad? Why not someone else?
Because I knew you better than anyone else. I knew what would happen at the bridge, what you’d do.
And what would I do, Dad?
I already told you. At the hospital. Remember?
Yes, but tell me again. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?
I went to the hospital to visit you. You had been unconscious since the attack on the bridge. The bullet had pierced your arm, penetrated your chest. We, your mother and I, visited every day. And then one day you emerged from the coma. We were alone you and I. You spilled on your cheeks. I bent close to you. I had never loved you as much as at that moment. You started to speak. You said you were sorry. Sorry that you had told them about the attack. The attack at nine thirty. You said you were sorry you had let me down, let your country down, had not been brave enough. I took you in my arms. I told you that you should not be sorry, that you had been brave. As brave as you were able to be. Nobody, not even your country, could ask for more. I said that you were supposed to tell them that the attack would come at nine thirty. It had been planned that way. Yo
u were selected for that purpose. We needed someone who would tell them what they wanted to hear. The telephone call while you were in my office was planned. So was the desk pad and the time I wrote down for you to see. We wanted you to hear the telephone conversation about special forces. To see the time on the pad. So that you could tell them and so that they would believe you. So that we could attack earlier. Take them by surprise and save the children.
But what about me?
We didn’t anticipate that they would not release you. We didn’t anticipate that Artkin would have time to shoot you. It was computerized as a minimum risk.
I don’t mean that.
What do you mean?
I mean: what about me? To find out that I not only betrayed my country but had been expected to do it. To find out that I was expected to act as a coward, unable to take a little pain.
It was a lot of pain. More than we computed. A lot of others would have cracked.
But I was the one who cracked. I was expected to crack. Whether the pain was bad or not, you knew I’d crack. You counted on me being a coward.
Not a coward.
What was I then?
Vulnerable.
A coward.
Susceptible.
A coward.
You were serving your country. Serving it in your way just as I was serving it in mine.
Is a country worth that much, Dad? How could I have gone through life knowing what I had done? Knowing that my cowardice had served my country. Where did that leave me, Dad?
I’m sorry, Ben. I was sorry as soon as I told you. As soon as I saw your face and realized what I had done. I thought: I’ll make it up to you. If it takes months, years. I’ll earn your forgiveness.
And then I died.
Oh, Ben.
Another bridge, another day.
I tried to stop you, Ben.
But you were too late, weren’t you?
I failed you. Again.
But I couldn’t have gone on living anyway, could I?
No.
And you buried me.
Yes.
Twice.
Yes.
Once in the ground, in the military cemetery at Fort Delta. And again inside of you. Buried me deep inside of you.
Yes. I tried to forget, to escape.
But you keep bringing me back.
I know. To tell you I’m sorry, to ask your forgiveness.
Then why not ask me?
Because I’m afraid.
Afraid of what?
It’s hard for me to say it.
Let me say it for you. You’re afraid that I won’t forgive you.
Yes.
That’s why you keep bringing me back and then making me go.
Yes.
Then let me say it.
Will you?
Yes. I’ll say it. I forgive you.
Thank you, Ben.
See? I said it. Now you won’t have to send me back again. Now I can stay.
But I think you should go, Ben.
I like it here. It’s nice. It’s like your old prep school, Castleton, isn’t it? And the doctor. Doesn’t he remind you of Dean Albertson? You told me all about him. How he talked so much, always rambling on.
I think you ought to go now, Ben.
And the others. Your old friends, Martingale and Donateli. They’re still here, aren’t they? In your yearbook. Knights and Dayze.
I want you to go, Ben.
And Nettie Halversham. We’re all mixed up about her, aren’t we? I told you about her, didn’t I? Or did you overhear me talking about her? Is she mine or yours? Did you know a girl like her once?
Please, Ben, stop.
No. I don’t think I’ll stop. And I won’t leave, either. You once said, “Put yourself in my place, Ben.” Well, that’s exactly what I’m doing, Dad.
You can’t.
Why can’t I?
Because you can’t stay.
Oh yes I can.
You cannot.
But I like it here.
You must go.
I think I’ll stay.
I order you to go.
Tell you what, Dad.
What?
You go.
I must stay.
That’s it. You go.
No, I can’t go.
Why not?
I won’t go.
Yes, you will.
Please, Ben.
You brought me here but that doesn’t mean you can send me away. You brought me back before and made me leave. But this time I’m staying.
No, you can’t. You mustn’t.
This time you’re going. Not me.
I can’t.
Yes, you can.
I won’t.
Yes, you will.
No.
You’d better go now, Dad.
No …
You can’t stay any longer.
Please …
I’m here to stay.
No …
Good-bye, Dad.
part
12
The rain had stopped but the pavement was still wet. Despite the rain, the day had remained warm. Now that evening was here, the heat and humidity were high. Miro’s clothes were soaked. The clothing stuck to his flesh. The rain had begun in mid-afternoon, had shortly reached a crescendo, the clouds like broken dams, and then abated. Miro had kept moving through the downpour, knowing he could not indulge in the luxury of rest or recuperation. He kept low to the ground, darting and scurrying from bush to shrub to tree. He had climbed trees twice to elude his pursuers. Once, he had removed his undershirt, torn it into strips that he used to bandage his injured leg. He became immune to the pain. Or perhaps his entire body was so pain-wracked that he could not tell where he began and the pain left off. He was neither hungry nor thirsty. He felt neither weak nor strong. He simply existed.
He was sitting in bushes by the side of the highway. Darkness had fallen. The lights of passing cars stabbed at the darkness. He wondered whether he should chance hitching a ride. He sensed danger in it. Miro knew that his description had probably been circulated throughout the area, throughout the state and nation. He also knew that he looked a sight, soaked and bloody.
He glanced over his shoulder. The woods were dark and silent. A stench rose to his nostrils. His own stench. He had swum through a river thick with scum to escape the searchers. The river ran beside several old factories and by a dump. He thought of his pursuers, the close calls he’d had. It had been like a game but he had taken no pleasure in it. He had used the knowledge he had gained in the camps and the training school, relying on instinct as well.
Once, he’d wondered: Why am I running? Why do I wish to escape? He should have died with Artkin on the bridge. That would have been a statement for others to see. Then he remembered all the lessons Artkin had taught him, day by day, year by year. He realized Artkin had taught him for a purpose. It would have been glorious to die with Artkin on the bridge. But it was more important to carry on the work. So Miro had persisted in his escape, willing himself to continue past pain and exhaustion.
Traffic was light now. Cars passed only occasionally. A truck lumbered into view and vanished in the night. The highway was dark, without streetlights. Miro sensed that the darkness was a friend, that he should take advantage of the night to get away from here. He needed to get to Boston; once there, he could hide in a dozen places and then make contacts. The best way to go would be in one of the passing cars or trucks. The solution was simple: hitch a ride, then kill the driver, dump the body somewhere, and continue on his way. The gun was still in his belt, fully loaded except for the bullet he had spent on the girl.
He thought of the girl. And Artkin. And his last sight of them. Artkin dying as he fell. The girl curled up in the bushes, her face hidden. Both his victims. He knew he had killed Artkin by reaching for the girl instead of warning him of the approaching soldiers. He was responsible for Artkin’s death. Thus, Artkin had been his first death, not the gi
rl. And the girl. She had been playing games with him, the way she had played games with him on the bus. It was impossible that Artkin was his father. For one moment, the girl had made him believe it. The moment had pierced him with—what? Something. Like the something he had known when she touched his arm on the bus. He remembered how her flesh glowed in the dimness of the bus. He had been filled with that something he could not put a name to. The girl had asked him once: Don’t you feel anything? Perhaps he had been filled with feeling at that moment. He did not know. He did not care. He would not let himself be filled with anything again. He would keep himself empty, like before.
A car stopped nearby. A station wagon. The driver got out of the car. A man, short and fat. The man looked around and began to walk toward the woods at the edge of the roadway, fumbling with his trousers, apparently seeking a place to urinate. Miro recognized his good fortune. He decided he would not waste a bullet but would use his hands.
He moved out of the bushes into the world that was waiting for him.
Robert Cormier (1925–2000) changed the face of young adult literature over the course of his illustrious career. His many novels include The Chocolate War, Beyond the Chocolate War, I Am the Cheese, Fade, Tenderness, After the First Death, Heroes, Frenchtown Summer, and The Rag and Bone Shop. In 1991, he received the Margaret A. Edwards Award, honoring his lifetime contribution to writing for teens.
AFTER THE FIRST DEATH
“A psychological thriller … written in crackling prose.”
—Newsweek
“Marvelously told … the pressure mounts steadily.”
—The New York Times
“A master of suspense … grabbing the reader on page one and sustaining attention until the final page.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Towers above the usual … bolsters Cormier’s mounting repute as a master of suspense and a wire-tight craftsman.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“Tough, double-barreled … smashing.”