By Floyd Largent
“Look, it’s been a week since the quake. When are you people going to leave me alone?”
“Please bear with us, Ms. Asano. Things are still in turmoil. A hundred billion dollars’ worth of damage to Los Angeles County alone. Sixty thousand buildings damaged. Tens of thousands homeless. Fifteen hundred dead.”
“I know. I was there. I experienced the worst thing a survivor could possibly experience.”
“Did you, Ms. Asano? Did you really?”
“Of course I did! I saw my twelve-year-old nephew die! How am I supposed to live with that?!”
“Calm down, Ms. Asano. Sit. Sit down. We have a few more questions, and this time you’re going to answer all of them.”
“I just want to be left alone.”
“Maybe after we’re done here. After we clear up a few details.”
“Right.”
“Now, take us through what happened on the 28th of this past month.”
“All right. Fine. I was taking Shane out shopping for his birthday. He was turning 12. He’d been cranky all day, and he was acting up again. As we were passing the Leopold Building, I mentioned that they had this great observation deck up on the 39th floor where you could see the whole city. He likes things like that. I mean, he liked things like that. Anyway, I thought it might calm him down. So we went up there, and used those telescopes they have where you put in a quarter to look out over the city for five minutes. I was looking at the Griffith Observatory when he said, Hey, check it out! I looked up, and the brat was sitting on the top rail of that protective fence, or guardrail, or whatever you call it. Right where he shouldn’t’ve been, as usual.”
“As usual? Did you know he would do that, Ms. Asano?”
“No, how could I? But I wasn’t surprised. Shane was fearless. It was just like him to do something like that.”
“What happened next?”
“Well, I started yelling at him about how his mom would kill me if he got hurt, and he just laughed at me. So I climbed up on that ledge the guardrail was imbedded in and grabbed his right arm with my left hand. I was holding onto the rail with my right hand…”
“And then?”
“That’s when the quake hit, and Shane started to fall. He grabbed my left arm with both hands, and as he fell, my arm got yanked down onto the rail, and he broke both the bones in my forearm. See the cast? Anyway, I grabbed his hands with my right hand, too. But Shane was a big kid, you know, heavyset for his age, and we were both pretty sweaty, because it was a warm day, you know, and…”
“And?”
“And I wasn’t able to hold on! I was pulling him up when the first aftershock hit. And he… he just slipped loose. There was nothing I could do.”
“You witnessed Shane’s death?”
“…Yes.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“Are you kidding me right now?! I felt awful! I still do!”
“I see… tell me, Ms. Asano, did you resent Shane?”
“I don’t understand what you mean. Why would I resent him? He was just a kid.”
“Yes, he was. And how was Shame related to you, Ms. Asano?”
“You know. He was my nephew.”
“You have no siblings, Ms. Asano.”
“Well… he was kind of my nephew, okay? Not a blood relative, but he’s, he was, my best friend’s son. He called me Aunt May, like he was Peter Parker or something.”
“I see. And who was his father?”
“Oh, God, you want me to air all my dirty laundry?… okay. His father was my ex-husband. That’s why the kid and I have, had, the same last name.”
“You divorced your husband 11 years ago, Ms. Asano. Shane was almost 12 when he died.”
“I divorced Gareth when I found out he’d been having an affair with Gail for years, and that Shane was his bastard. But, you know, Gail’s still my best friend. Shane was family.”
“I ask you again: given the circumstances of his conception and birth, did you resent Shane Asano?”
“Hell no. Why should I? He was just a kid. It wasn’t his fault.”
“But you resented what his parents did to you.”
“Of course I did. I’m only human, and they flayed my soul open. But I wouldn’t hurt Shane. What are you getting at?”
“Just clearing up a few things, Ms. Asano. Now, here’s something I don’t quite understand: why did his parents let you take Shane to West Hollywood, clear across town from where you all live, with no supervision? Can you clarify that?”
“I told you, we were family. Gail is still my best friend, and I’m still friendly with Gareth.”
“You just said you resent them both. That they flayed your soul open.”
“I did resent them, but I got over it years ago. I don’t like where this conversation is going, Detective.”
“I don’t care. By the way, did you know Shane was afraid of heights, according to his mother? She claims he would never have gotten up on that railing the way you describe.”
“What the hell does she know? Was she there? No. He did it.”
“Mmmhmm. Do you know what this is, Ms. Asano?”
“That folder there? No idea.”
“This is Shane Asano’s autopsy report. It raises a few very interesting questions. For example: according to the medical examiner, the first three fingers of Shane’s right hand were forcibly broken immediately before he fell to his death.”
“How can they even tell that? I mean, even if it’s true, I don’t understand what that has to do with anything.”
“It suggests to me that Shane was holding tightly onto the rail of the observation deck until someone pried his fingers off of it, one by one.”
“That’s not the way it was! Maybe he broke his fingers when he broke my arm!”
“Uh huh.”
This goddamn cop! I’m telling the truth. I did my best to save Shane. I can’t stop thinking about it. I remember that I didn’t pry Shane’s hand off that gritty, rusty rail, finger by finger; I remember the all-encompassing pain as fat little Shane grabbed my arm, screaming, and broke it with his weight as it slammed down on the rail; I remember grabbing the wadded conglomeration of my left hand and both his hands with my right hand, and pulling hard, hard enough to make something in his hands or something in my arm go crack; I remember him trying to crawl his way up my arm, pulling me down over the rail toward the fatal drop; I remember the slick pudginess of his hands; and I especially remember the awful weight of gravity dragging us down; and then I remember the tremendous vibration of the aftershock shivering our hands apart, until my body just gave up on Shane —
And I remember my eyes following him all the way down. Down and down. And how in the aftershock of it all, I felt nothing. Nothing at all.
No sorrow. No regret.
“I need to go.”
“Ms. Asano, please sit back down. We’re far from done here.”
No horror. No joy. No guilt.
“I need to go. I’m leaving now.”
“Ms. Asano — ”
I’m empty. Hollow. That’s the worst part. Worse than watching my Shane fall 39 stories, until he made a bloody exclamation mark on the pavement.
He fell down, down to the hard earth, and I felt — and I feel —
Nothing.
It was all just an accident. A horrible, horrible accident.
Wasn’t it?
* * *
Floyd Largent is a former archaeologist who never woke a sleeping god or unearthed an ancient evil (alas). In the past year or so, he has published or had accepted for publication six poems and 31 short stories, in venues including Altered Realities, Bewildering Stories, Bullet Points, Chewers, CommuterLit, Harvey Duckman Presents, Not One of Us, Masticadores International, Revolving Door II anthology, and more.