Mike, the Good Son

by Richard Natale

The dead guy you saw on TV last night—that was my brother, Mike.

The sheriff, in his infinite wisdom, insisted on releasing the CCTV tape of his murder to the local TV stations. Something about it being in a public service, since Mike was a respected member of the community. The one saving grace is that they held back until all the members of his immediate family were notified and had the opportunity to view the tape ourselves, a dubious honor which, as the eldest sibling, fell to me.

I was the first person my sister-in-law, Katie, called—from down at the school. Earlier, a friend, Eileen Petrakis, who lives a few blocks away, phoned to alert her that a bunch of squad cars, sirens blaring, lights twirling, had whooshed by her house. She went out to investigate and noted that they’d all congregated around Lyndon Baines Johnson Junior High. She was too far away to get a clear sense of what was going on, but given that Mike was the principal, and their two kids attended LBJ, she thought Katie should know.

Katie immediately got into her car. The surrounding streets were cordoned off, and she had to walk the last few blocks to the school. The bad news had traveled quickly and it was pandemonium outside. One of the mothers, June Welch, was screaming and beating her fists against a man’s chest—her husband, Katie assumed. Others simply stood there stunned, with that, ‘and now it’s happened to us,’ glaze over their faces. Pushing her way through the crowd, Katie saw Viola Adams, the assistant principal, in the distance. Viola looked at her and quickly looked away, took a deep breath, and looked back again. She reached out for Katie’s wrist and led her to the sheriff. Katie was, by now, sweating through her clothes and her heart was beating like a tom-tom.

The sheriff told Katie that Kyle and Judy were safe. They were being held around the back of the school and they would be reunited as soon as he got the all-clear. Without pause, he continued, ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this’ . . . and suddenly a discordant brass band began playing in Katie’s head.

I fell back against the wall when she told me that Mike was dead. ‘Jesus Christ!’ I said. After that, I went mute.

‘Would you mind telling your folks and Leon (our younger brother),’ Katie asked in a calm but toneless voice. I’ll handle the kids once they’re released and, later, I have to go down to the morgue to identify the body.

‘Of course, of course, of course,’ I repeated, my voice returning. ‘Is there anything else I . . . ?’

‘No,’ she said, as if on autopilot. ‘That’s it. We’ll speak later.’

I must have buzzed through at least two stop signs on the way to my folks. On the way, I speed-dialed Leon.

‘I need you to meet me at Mom and Dad’s right away,’ I said.

‘Now? But I have a property to show,’ he replied, almost annoyed.

‘Cancel it. Reschedule.’

‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘For God’s sake, just do as I say,’ I yelled and hung up.

Leon knew better than to cross me. Later, I’d apologize for snapping at him, but I couldn’t very well break the news to him over the phone. He’d get into an accident on the road. Leon’s kind of fragile, as Mom has often reminded us. Mainly because he was coddled to a fare-thee-well and my parents have yet to untie their apron strings.

When I got out of the car, I sensed Mrs. Winters across the way peering through her drapes, as well as another neighbor whom I didn’t know. It must already be on the news. Halfway up the walk Leon pulled into the driveway and raced across the lawn.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ he said.

‘Not here. Inside. Use your key,’ I commanded. He fumbled for a moment before unlocking the door.

Dad was lying on the couch watching, of all things, Squid Game. Well, better that than . . .

‘Hello boys,’ he said, sitting up. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Mom appeared in the doorway and, being a mother, was an expert face reader. The smile on her face vanished.

I needed to get it out—and quickly—before I lost my nerve.

‘Some kid shot up the school,’ I said. ‘Kyle and Judy are okay.’ Then, when I hesitated, they surmised the rest. Mom inhaled sharply and put her hand over her mouth. She threw herself into an armchair, bent over, and drew the hem of her apron over her head.

Dad shook his head back and forth trying to dislodge the news from his brain. He only stopped when Leon let go a pitiable wail and threw himself into Dad’s arms and began to sob loudly like a seven-year-old.

You have to understand something. My folks loved all their kids, but Mike was the favorite son (and brother, and husband, and father). He was handsome and smart and gentle and generous and loyal. None of us are perfect, but Mike came pretty close. I’m not saying that just because I’m his brother.

Even in the role of principal, he was respected—by parents and students alike. The kids rarely got defensive when he disciplined them, a task he handled with his usual grace and equanimity. ‘I don’t enjoy doing this,’ he would tell the offender(s). ‘But first, let me ask you something. And I want you to be honest. When you look back on this, years from now, will you be able to say that you were proud of your behavior today?’

Though we were complete opposites temperamentally, Mike was my closest friend. We were only two years apart and had no secrets. He was always there for me to bend his ear and didn’t hesitate to call me out when required, which was more often than I’d like to admit.

‘You screwed up, Pete,’ he’d tell me. ‘Now, you’ve got to make it right.’

I excused myself and went into the bathroom to call my ex-wife, Bridget. She’d already heard. I apologized for not calling sooner but she said she understood. She thanked me for handling my folks and Leon. ‘I know it can’t have been easy,’ she said.

Bridget, the mistress of understatement.

Katie had phoned her as well (they’re still close) and, soon after, Bridget broke the news to our twin daughters who are away at college. She volunteered to accompany Katie to the morgue. ‘Would you like me to join you,’ I asked. ‘No, you stay there, she said. I’ll have my hands full with Katie.’ Before she rang off, Bridget said, ‘I’m so, so sorry. For all of you. Call me if you . . . Call me anytime.’ For Bridget who, in the last year of our marriage, couldn’t bear to be in the same room with me, that was something else.

I rejoined Mom and Dad and Leon, and the four of us sat around the kitchen table for the next few hours examining the wood grain. We had no appetite, no thirst, no language. The shock had settled over us like a suffocating blanket. Around eight, my cell phone rang. I answered only because I thought it might be one of my daughters.

Katie again.

‘How are you holding up?’ I inquired, surely one of the dumbest questions in the English language.

‘It’s done,’ she said. ‘Bridget poured some whiskey down my throat beforehand and gave me a Xanax. I hate whiskey, but the Xanax was a blessing. Think I’ll hit up my doctor for a scrip.’

I produced something akin to a chortle and immediately regretted it.

‘How are the kids?’ I asked.

‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘It hasn’t sunk in yet. I’m afraid of what’s going to happen when it does. Bridget’s staying over tonight, in case. . . . But listen, that’s not why I called. I’m sending you something. A CCTV tape the police want to release to the media. I haven’t seen it yet and I hate to lay this on you.’

‘Then don’t. Please don’t,’ I wanted to say. Instead, I replied, ‘It’s fine. I’ll do it.’ That’s what Mike would have said.

‘And do me a favor,’ she added. ‘Please don’t show it to your folks or Leon. It’s pretty strong stuff from what I hear.’

The tape of my brother’s murder was the last thing in the world I wanted to see. I was afraid I might start punching a wall and never stop. (To be clear, I’m not a wall puncher by nature. But something like this could easily turn my grief into boiling anger). Still, I suppose someone had to view it first. And, as has happened more than a few times in my life, as the eldest, I got stuck with the shit end of the stick.

There was no sound on the tape and it was shot from about fifteen feet away. A kid of about eighteen or twenty (as I later found out), his features mostly concealed under a hood and a Balaklava, is holding an automatic rifle pointed at Mike, who was just off camera, identifiable only by his hands and his shirt cuffs. From the looks of it, he was trying to reason with the kid and talk him out of what he was about to do. I’m sure he spoke in that genteel but forthright voice he affected when attempting to defuse a situation.

I had the oddest sensation. It was like I was watching the beginning of the shower scene in Psycho and though I knew full well what was going to happen, I was still in suspense thinking, maybe, just maybe, it’ll be different this time.

Anyway, for some strange reason, the kid seemed to be listening. I guessed (rightly as it turned out) that he knew the boy. A former student. A troubled soul who’d had ample time for the rage inside him to build. Mike’s forearms were moving excitedly at the edge of the frame, the gestures wilder and more than normal, possibly suggesting panic.

Watching Mike lose his cool, was too much for me. I considered turning off the tape. And I would have, had it not dawned on me that I was wrong. Mike wasn’t panicking. He was stalling. Stalling for time. Hoping to keep the boy at bay so that most of the students could be led out the back or the side windows. Or, failing that, to barricade themselves in a classroom.

He must have been aware that he was going to die, yet he was undeterred.

Classic Mike. To a tee. Always had his priorities straight.

Then, abruptly, the boy fired a round and Mike fell forward and into view, landing face down, motionless. He was already dead when the boy stepped over him and proceeded into the school where I later learned, he gunned down another teacher and seven students and wounded several others who hadn’t managed to make it out in time. The rampage ended when Juanito Perez, the janitor, crept up behind and hit him over the head with a fire extinguisher and, for good measure, hit him twice more, enough to inflict permanent brain damage.

The boy ended up in a permanent coma.

Ask me if I’m sorry for him. I won’t lie to you.

The one thing that kept me from completely falling apart was that the footage was blurry and the body lying face down in his own blood might or might not have been my brother. Of course, I knew that it was him. From the tailored suit. The neatly cropped hair. The shred of doubt, however, allowed me some distance. And, in the moment, I took what I could get.

When I returned to the kitchen, Leon’s wife, Marta, and his two boys were there, hugging and consoling him and my parents. I explained the situation with the tape and how they were, under no circumstances, to view it. Not on my phone and certainly not on TV, where it would likely be playing on a continuous loop for the next several days.

I got no argument.

I won’t give you the old song and dance that it should have been me instead of Mike, only that if it had happened that way, I’m sure he’d have handled the situation better than I did.

I hope I didn’t screw up too badly, Mike. Feel free to tell me if I did, and I’ll try to make things right.

© 2024 Richard Natale  All rights reserved.

Click or tap here to see Richard Natale’s profile.

Use the “Leave a Comment” form below to submit comments on this piece.

confetti