AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“He said … he said there was a car bomb. That your mom and dad and brother were all inside.”
“Did he tell you why?”
I shake my head.
“My father worked for a don named Kazimir Anisim. Have you heard of him?”
“No.”
“He was the big man in Belarus at the time. My father was his accountant.”
Jasper cracks the joints of his fingers mindlessly, compulsively.Crack, crack, crack,each pop sharp and distinct in the quiet of the booth.
“My brother was brilliant and good at everything. Not me. It was a struggle to get my parents’ attention. I wasn’t popular at school. My marks were shit. Over the summer holidays I was always underfoot, driving my mom crazy. So my father would take me along with him on errands. Sometimes he took me to Anisim’s house. He’d go into the boss’ office and I’d sit out on the patio, playing with Anisim’s dogs. He had two cocker spaniels.”
He pauses again, making a face as if he’s in pain, as if his stomach hurts.
“Anisim would come out to watch me with the dogs. He said they liked me better than anyone. I knew he was important, and my father’s boss, so at first I was scared of him. But he looked kindly, like a grandfather with white hair and blue eyes and round gold-framed spectacles. He wore tweed suits and smelled like peppermint. He used to give me peppermints, and tell me that he could see I was clever and observant. He’d ask me things like, did I notice the new painting in the hall? When I said I did and described it to him, he praised me for it.”
It all sounds so benign, and yet a feeling of dread creeps over me. Jasper is still looking down at his hands. I can tell he’s not seeing his fingers or anything else in the restaurant around us. His eyes are glassy, his skin bleached whiter than ever.
“He started asking me other questions. What was my mother’s favorite flower? What did my brother like to do for fun? I thought he was curious, or testing me. Maybe he meant to send my mother flowers, or take my brother to the movies. I was eight and an idiot.”
“All eight-year-olds are idiots,” I say softly.
Jasper hardly seems to hear me.
“My father would ask me afterward, ‘What do you talk to Anisim about?’ And I’d say, ‘Nothing. The dogs, mostly.’ I didn’t want my father to stop bringing me along or to stop his boss talking to me. I loved the attention. Soon the questions became more specific. Strange questions I didn’t always understand—did your father go anywhere Thursday night? Does he have another cell phone? I knew there was something off about it. Maybe I even knew I was spying on my father. But it seemed harmless.”
My stomach is churning, though no more than Jasper’s I’m sure. I want the story to stop, while compelled to hear every word of it.
“Anisim was right about one thing: I was observant. I reported many things to him. Things my father wouldn’t even know that I’d know. That my father was drinking too much, that he was sneaking out of the house at night when my mother was asleep.”
Jasper sighs.
“What I didn’t know was what had happened six months earlier. My father was driving home one night in the rain. He hit a woman crossing the street. She was a nurse, walking to the bus stop from the hospital. My father knew he’d be charged, so he fled the scene. He didn’t know themilitsiyahad him under surveillance. They saw the whole thing. They’d been looking for an in with Anisim. The hit-and-run was a gift from heaven. They cornered my father. Threatened him. Swore that Anisim would never find out where they’d gotten the information. And maybe he wouldn’t have.”
Jasper’s face contorts. His fingers clench into fists and then lie still on his lap.
“But he did suspect a mole. I gave him all the information he needed to confirm it was my father. His lieutenant put the bomb in the car. It was Sunday morning. We were all driving to brunch. I was in the backseat with my brother. My mother turned her head and said, ‘It’s a long drive, did you use the bathroom?’ I ran back into the house. We had a big house with a detached garage. My father started the engine so he could drive the car close to the door and pick me up out front. I stepped outside right at that moment. I heard the key turn and saw the car explode in front of me. The blast blew me backward into the house.”
My hand is over my mouth. I can’t speak.
“It knocked me out for a minute. When I came to, I stumbled outside. The car was a ball of fire and smoke. The windows had shattered. I could see all three of them, black and melted, their faces on fire. My mother and father in the front. Isaak in the backseat.”
“That’s awful Jasper, god I’m sorry.”
I’m feeling deeply guilty for every moment I resented him, for every stupid remark I’ve thrown his way.
Jasper looks at me, eyes narrowed.
“Don’t pity me.It was my fault.”
He passes one skeletal hand over his face, as if to wipe away his own emotion.
In that moment, I finally understand his tattoos. They’re penance for what he did—the mark of death all over his body. The reminder of his family, burned to the bone. Perhaps a desire to join them.
And the tattoo on his face—that’s penance for Zigor. For endangering his new family once more.
