Frank Vaughn Killed by his Mom

CHAPTER 1

Butch sat on the porch watching the girls skip rope:

"Frank Vaughn, killed by his mom

Lying in bed alooone,

She picked up a bat

And gave him a whack

And broke his head to the booone

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…"

…and so on.

Cindy reached the twenties before snagging a toe, but Frank's mom couldn't have hit him that many times. A lot, but not that many.

Immortalized in skip rhyme. Amazing. It had been what, only a week? Frank was still on TV. Pat Jarrod, the Channel 7 news anchor, was all grim last night while narrating the film of Frank's dad escorting Frank's mom, very pretty in a silk dress and beehive hairdo, into the Lawton Court House. Mr. Vaughn was wearing his class-A uniform and dark glasses and looked like the President of Vietnam, and his wife looked like Mrs. President of Vietnam.

They're Filipino, dad said.

Could've been a state visit, except no one was happy.

Butch was surprised when Frank's dad helped Mrs. Frank up the courthouse stairs. Odd. He should be really mad at her, but there he was, being nice. The girls weren't being nice; they were making fun of Frank, which wasn't right. It wasn't Frank's fault.

Cindy was in again and the others—Lynn and Debbie, Carla from down the street, Maria and Joseph (who might as well be a girl), and some random passersby—were doing their best to trip her up while staying on the Frank call. You'd think they'd get tired of it, go on to Spank or Battleship, but no. Butch should go over and tell them to stop, but that would invoke the deadly kid Ewww! response and its follow-up, Go away, you big baby, we'll do what we want! and even Cindy would join in because this was the herd, although she'd be gentle. He'd be humiliated and might get his suit, the same one he wore to Frank's funeral, dirty, which meant a beating and not going to Dale's graduation. Best to stay here.

Graduation. Sure making a big deal. All of them dressed up, even Art with some put-together shirt and skinny tie that wasn't a suit at all, something Butch, with great delight, repeatedly pointed out. Cindy had on a flowered dress with a yellow silk belt and Mom had brushed her red-blonde hair until it was full and fluffy and floated like a cloud, as it did now inside the rope… twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six. She wouldn't get dirty.

Never did. Even when they had mud ball fights and slid head first, screaming and laughing, down the crap hills piled up by the bulldozer guys building apartments near the ball fields, only Butch came back with twenty or thirty layers of dirt hiding his identity. She was untouched. She was perfect.

She was beautiful.

Butch watched her, and his heart soared and knew he was lucky to be her brother… okay, adopted brother. All the boys wanted to cut the string on her finger but she wouldn't let them, and all the girls wanted to play with her, just her, but she played with them all, no favorites, her laughter ringing up and down the hallways of B.C. Swinney Elementary.

Because of Cindy, the bullies more or less left Butch alone and the other kids tolerated his goofiness. In any other family, that'd be enough. But she favored him, him, over the smart, handsome boys who pursued her on the playground and the sophisticated girls who called her on the phone. Butch was her sole companion when she ran through the alley and over the crap hills. They rolled down the slopes together until they were so dizzy that earth and sky blurred and then they lay on their backs and made things out of clouds and said their secrets and never, ever, told on each other. She didn't call him stupid or spaz or any of the other names everyone including dad did; she covered for him, made him look better than he was. She'd somehow disentangle him if he went over there and screamed at the girls for making fun of Frank. Without her, he'd be dead.

Just like Frank.

Tommy walked up the mile-high steps onto the porch and scooted Cha Cha, who lay next to Butch, out of the way. The dog smiled good-naturedly as Tommy sat down and handed Butch a Journey Into Mystery, To Kill a Thunder God! Good cover with the Destroyer on it and Butch flipped to The Crimson Hand, one of the Tales of Asgard. He'd already read it, but he liked to re-read things he liked, and the Norse myths fascinated him. Tommy had X-Men #12, The Origin of Professor X! and Butch glanced over. His copy was in the house. He and Tommy had bought probably the last two left at Carl's Drug Store, thank God, before someone else got them. Good issue, but he wasn't sure which origin story, Professor X's or Juggernaut's, was the more compelling. Juggernaut was magic, not a mutant. That made him hard to defeat.

Tommy caught his glance and shook the X-Men at him. You wanna read this one?

Yes, but Asgard first so Butch finger-waved him away, already back on the Hand. Tommy grunted and turned to the page showing Juggernaut at Professor X's feet, helmet off, surprised by a Professor X-guided Angel attack. Butch momentarily abandoned Asgard for Juggernaut's terrified face. There's always a weakness. Just had to find it.

Why you all dressed up? Tommy asked.

Dale's graduation.

Oh. Tommy nodded and looked at the girls. Tommy was in sixth grade now but, next year, on to middle school. Next week Butch turned ten, double-digits at last, teenagery mere scattered months beyond, a birthday of grand implications heralded with cupcakes and ice cream and singing and presents and maybe, please God, that longed-for GI Joe. Butch looked forward to it with all the twittery anticipation of a Christmas morning. But their mutual promotions might have a dangerous effect on their friendship.

Tommy lived right next door, very convenient for a best friend, and there were hardly two hours straight in the day that Butch wasn't at Tommy's or the other way around. They played army, with Tommy the Americans and Butch the Germans, or Civil War, with Tommy the North and Butch the Rebs, or Marvel, with Tommy as Dr. Strange or Reed Richards and Butch as Dormammu or Doctor Doom. Occasionally, Chuckie from two doors down joined them when he wasn't in trouble, or Dale (funny that he had Butch's sister's name) from across the street when he was visiting his aunt. But those were interludes Butch really didn't like because, invariably, Chuckie or Dale teased Butch about something stupid he did or said and Tommy let them continue until Butch cried and went home.

The best times were right now, side by side, reading Marvel. Tommy got him started a few years ago, dragged Butch and his weekly quarter off to Carl's. Don't buy baseball cards, jerko, lookee here!

Tommy had spun the magazine rack to a slot containing Fantastic Four #1 with that big green thing coming out of the street.

Wow.

Butch liked Batman, and Sergeant Rock and the tank haunted by the ghost of General Stuart in GI Combat, but this! He bought the FF and a Two-Gun Kid and still had one cent left over for bubblegum with a Luis Tiant and Tug McGraw inside to trade later.

So who's the jerko, jerko?

They had raced to Tommy's back porch and Tommy read the comics aloud because Butch couldn't read yet. First grade was still months away, and he hadn't gone to kindergarten like Cindy and Art. If it hadn't been for those comic books and Green Eggs and Ham, Butch wouldn't have had a clue what a letter was, much less whole words, when he walked into Miss MacDonald's first-grade class that fall.

Now, look at him. He read as well as Tommy, maybe better. Butch had read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer five times already, loving each pass-through. Miss Hale, the most beautiful second-grade teacher in the world, had read it to them during story time. Enthralled, Butch had pestered her to do so again, and she asked, Would you like to read it for yourself?

Would he!

Maybe a little advanced, Butch, but if you think you can do it…

He sure did think he could do it. Hadn't he blasted through the SRAs, didn't he swap Happy Hollisters with the third graders and wasn't he a Marvel True Believer? She lent him her copy and he finished it in a week, and Miss Hale was so astonished she gave it to him when school ended. He could read anything now, couldn't he?

Call me a bookworm, dad, I don't care.

But all that was in jeopardy. If there was one group of kids with which middle schoolers had no truck, it was elementaries… like Butch. Butch would ascend to the middle grades when Tommy was already in ninth, one year away from high school, and ninth graders had even less truck with seventh graders. Their friendship was aging out. It was more than likely that this summer was the very last time that he and Tommy could, or would, remain the best of friends.

That prospect gave Butch the chills, and he glanced apprehensively at his very best friend in the entire universe and, oh my God, look at this, Tommy was still on the girls. Butch frowned. Tommy had the narrowed eyes that dad got whenever he looked at bent-over girls or girls walking by in their bathing suits. Butch always looked away feeling guilty, even though he didn't understand why. Dad, though, stayed on them; smiled, too.

Wait. Wrong word—'leered,' yeah, that's it. An ugly word. But appropriate.

Tommy's gaze was on Lynn, who had taken over one end of the rope, and Butch got mad. Lynn, although closer to Tommy's age, was his, dang it! And nobody else's narrowed-eye target. Hey!

Startled, Tommy looked at him. What?

Butch pointed at the X-Men. You done?

Yeah. I thought you had it.

I do, but it's in the house. Trade.

Tommy made an exasperated sound and swapped the books. Butch smiled secretly.

You heard what's going to happen with Reed Richards and the Invisible Girl? Tommy asked.

What?

They're getting married.

Really? Intrigued, Butch said, How do you know?

The Annual.

Butch considered. What if they have a kid?

They looked at each other. "Whooaaaa!" erupted simultaneously and they laughed and slapped backs and crowed as Cha Cha, ever ready to share enthusiasm, sat and barked along, as the two, well, three of them, speculated what powers the kid would have: the ability to stretch an invisible hand or force field across an entire city, or maybe something entirely different. Would the kid be classified a mutant, which meant attending Professor X's school, or an accident, like Spiderman, and remain with FF, which would then become F5? They had a very stimulating discussion.

Time to go! mom called from behind them.

They both jumped as the rope skipping dissolved and Cindy made her goodbyes and Cha Cha fled to the kitchen. Mom looked down at the boys with suspicion, then smiled and said, Hello, Tommy.

Hello, Mrs. Deats, Tommy said, ever polite to adults.

How's your mother?

Fine, ma'am. Tommy's mother, willowy and pale, disappeared for hours into bedrooms. Something sinister about that. She seemed frail, and Butch held his breath around her, afraid he'd give her a cold or something. He'd never seen her sick nor had Tommy ever said she was, but mortality hovered about her and Tommy looked grim whenever the conversation turned in her direction.

Well, tell her I was asking, will you? Mom smiled again, and it was warm until she caught sight of the comic books and her brows furrowed. For the life of me, boys, I don't see the attraction.

Butch held his breath, suddenly fearful of confiscation, but Tommy, good with adults, said, I know, ma'am. They seem stupid, but we really like them. He gestured at Butch. Butchie learned to read with them.

Mom scrutinized Butch; she shared dad's sentiment that he spent far too much time with his nose stuck in books and comics. Yes, well, I suppose, but I think you learn bad words from them.

Oh, no, ma'am, Tommy was solemn. They wouldn't let us buy them if that was so.

Mom looked ready to debate that but Cindy flounced up, all whirling skirt and hair, and gave Butch and Tommy a dazzling smile that melted them both. Sure enough, she wasn't even sweaty, although Mom fussed and pulled at things as she breezed by.

Mom turned to Butch. We have to go, insistent. He stood and socked Tommy in the shoulder while hissing, Don't call me 'Butchie!'

Tommy grinned and mouthed it as Butch stomped through the door, looking down to avoid a stumble. To his horror, he saw a dirty spot on his trousers. Jeez! He hadn't even moved!

Mom stopped him halfway in the foyer, Cindy long gone, and he was dead. Dead. He could already feel the tears rising to greet the inevitable slap and banishment to the bedroom and missing the graduation―which wasn't a bad prospect―and Thursday night television, which was.

Why does this stuff keep happening?

Mom knelt down. Are you all right? she asked softly.

He blinked back the tears he had placed for immediate aid and dispersal and stared at her, confused. What?

Are you going to be okay? she fussed with his collar, adjusted the lines of things, and pointedly ignored the dirty spot.

Again, what? What's this?

Butch got a little scared. I… yes, I guess. Mom?

She stared back, dark eyes and short dark hair and puffy cheeks, endearing in a mom, all pulled into worry lines. She pulled him into a hard, lung-shattering hug. You know I love you, don't you?

Shocked, Butch dropped into a defensive spasm that ended up as an unintentional hug back. Breath caught in his squeezed chest and turned quickly into a held-in sob because mom was always in pain, such pain, and it wasn't fair, and he had to make it right because no one else would. Yes, mom, I know. The sob escaped.

She squeezed him tighter. I'm sorry I've treated you so badly these past few weeks. I didn't mean to.

Past few weeks? part of his brain chided. How 'bout past few months? Past few years?

S'kay, mom. More sobs and the tears he'd reserved for the dirty pants switched allegiance, a couple springing loose and making a break for it down his cheek.

She pushed him out to arms' length. You think … she stopped and frowned and looked to her left.

Butch clutched at her arms.

What do I think, mom? That you don't love me the way you love your real children? That you only tolerate the Foundling out of Christian charity but deep down you wish I weren't here? Are you going to tell me that's not true? Then show me!

Your dad's there, she muttered and straightened his collar as though she'd been doing that all along and surreptitiously wiped his tears before Butch looked over her shoulder to see dad, in his dress uniform, half hidden in the door, face shadowed and roiling. The Watcher from the Dark, terrible and deadly.

Icy fear shot through Butch's heart because dad knew, knew, he'd been crying, and dad hated that. You wanna cry? I'll give you something to cry about! and the whistle of belt or whip made good the promise.

Are we going or what? dad said from around the perpetual cigarette in his mouth.

Mom nodded and said nothing because there was a good chance her voice was choked with the past moments and dad'd hear it and pounce anyway. Butch risked a look. Dad glowered at them but turned for the kitchen and the dangerous moment passed.

Mom squeezed his arm conspiratorially and stood up, straightening her skirt so Butch could use it as a shield to get into the hallway. Wash your face, mom called after him, sounding more like her old self in that.

Butch felt conflicted. Survived another moment. But lost one, too.

CHAPTER 2

Butch went to Lawton High School once to see Dale in Rebel Without a Cause. She played a Gang Girl who made chicken noises at the guy playing James Dean, then pretended to watch the drag race happening off stage. The sound effects guy made the crash sound, and she flung herself into the arms of some Gang Guy and acted scared. Butch was impressed. He'd seen the movie on TV so knew the story and wasn't confused by the bare stage, which was a classroom of folding chairs lined against the walls for the audience. Theater in the Round, Dale called it, and Butch thought it worked well. He'd waved at her when she exited, but she ignored him.

Actors.

That had been in a side part of the school accessed from a back parking lot and wasn't really much. The front, though… wow. It was big. Butch goggled at the sweeping granite steps and wide portico and columns, and then they entered the foyer... wow. It was bigger! White tile stretched in more directions than a compass, cascading down more hallways than Butch thought possible, all of them lined with millions of lockers that dwindled into the distance like one of those trick pictures. Gigantic trophy cases stood all over the place filled with gold statues of football and baseball players and guys with their arms raised like they were saying something, team portraits marked with dates going back fifty years arrayed behind, the athletes grinning and mouthing at the camera. Flags and banners and portraits everywhere.

Beat Swinney all to heck.

Watch where you're going! Dale yelled at him.

Startled, Butch looked at her and then down at a red-and-black emblem painted on the floor, a depiction of some strange, snarling creature holding up a threatening paw, or what he guessed was a paw. The eyes were big and the mouth squared and bewhiskered and he immediately thought of a Chinese dragon dog he'd seen in a book once.

Fascinating.

A circle of Latin words surrounded the creature. Butch recognized Latin now. He'd asked Mrs. Moore, the fourth-grade teacher about a Latin phrase, Sic Semper Tyrannis, in a We Were There book about Gettysburg.

It's the language of Rome, she said, It means, 'Thus to all tyrants.'

Fascinating.

His foot hovered over the creature's face and he knew, based on Dale's reaction and the aghast stares of nearby high-schoolers, not to put it down. Instead, Butch pushed hard and made a rather spectacular leap over the image, landing spider-legged on the other side, sure he'd ripped his pants, but without laying even a toe on the beast. Not bad.

Stop fooling around, dad said, lighting a cigarette.

Humph. Such an acrobatic move was worthy of praise, not judgment, and he fell in beside Dale, feeling somewhat peeved. What is that thing? he asked.

The school mascot, she answered absently, intent on other people.

What is it?

A wolverine.

A what?

A wolverine. Annoyed, she stretched her neck and gave a big wave to someone.

Butch glanced back. It certainly didn't look like a wolverine, more like a ferret-monster or maybe a vicious skunk. Why can't you step on it?

She gave him her you-ask-too-many-questions face. Because it's bad luck.

Butch considered that as they stopped at an intersection of hallways, a people knot in a pool of bodies skittering here and there. Made sense. Shouldn't insult mascots by stepping on their images, especially ones that looked like dragons. Might make them mad.

Dale's face brightened. Hi! she said.

Mike, already in his graduation gown, stood there smiling. Hi, he replied and then smooshed Butch's hair. Hey, sport.

Butch evaded the continued hair attack and grinned. He liked Mike, who called him 'sport' and 'surfer' and other hilarious things and talked to Butch about music and explained album liner notes. He always wanted to know what Butch was reading and encouraged him to read more, unlike everyone else. He hoped Dale married him. You bothering your sister? Mike asked.

Always, Dale snorted and Butch almost rolled his eyes backwards as she pushed Mike toward the rest.

Mom smiled at him, Cindy smiled even more, Art picked at his sleeve, and dad frowned. He didn't like Mike. He didn't like any of Dale's friends, of course, but Mike less so because he was slight and pale and wore big goggly black glasses and had real thin hair and dad said he wasn't a man. Or maybe more because Mike had driven Dale and a few others to see the Kingston Trio in Oklahoma City a few months ago and a truck hit them and Dale's nose got smashed, and she had to have an operation and now had a scar.

Or maybe dad didn't like anyone kissing Dale, although he really shouldn't worry. Mike barely touched her, something Butch knew because he spied on them a lot. Mike touched Butch more than he did Dale. Made sense—roughhousing was fun; kissing was icky. Except if he got to kiss Lynn.

Mike, always easy, laughed with Mom and Dale while keeping a wary eye on dad who had taken his usual belligerent pose. Full scholarship, dad said to him through a forced smile, That's really good. Too bad no one else got one. He looked pointedly at Dale, who frowned. Prey and predator eyed each other, one sensing escape, the other determined to prevent it.

San Francisco State isn't half as expensive as Berkeley, Dale said, like she'd said every day for months now. My grant takes care of most of it and I've got a job waiting. Exasperating because, Jeez, how many times did she have to explain this? Even Butch got it.

C'mon, dad! What's the big deal?

'Waitin', all right. In the school cafeteria, dad sneered, Hope they let you keep the scraps.

It'll be enough, Dale's eyes were deadly and Butch shifted out of range. She looked that way before she pounded him. Dad's look, twice as deadly, and the one he usually got right before he initiated the half-murder he called a whipping, answered hers. He'd whip Dale right here if pushed enough.

Dale, are you crazy?

You should stay here, dad said.

Why? You're not!

What?

Instantly puzzled, Butch looked at Dale as if she'd spoken a foreign language, and then turned to the others. Mom looked helpless, Cindy as puzzled as he was, and Art… clueless. As usual. Did this mean dad was going away on orders like during that Cuban missile thing?

He was about to ask, but dad had gone seventeen shades of purple and lightning spewed out of his ears and oh, God, no. Dale had somehow lit dad's fuse. And when the dad grenade exploded, there would be a bloody, awful mess, right here on top of the wolverine.

Mike grabbed Dale's elbow and pulled her out of combat stance. Let's go!

Good thing, because dad was just moments away from a massive Frank Vaughning.

Mike levered an arm into Dale's back and hustled her along the hallway as she fought him. Tell me to stay? she raged, "He's the one abandoning Mom!" but Mike soothed and shushed and got her quickly into the crowd.

What??

Butch spun in place, admiring Mike's quick thinking and escape while completely dumbfounded by the things Dale said. What's she talking about? he asked Mom and dad in mid-spin.

Dad ignored him, eyes zeroed with the intensity of a Cyclops eye-blast on the retreating Mike and Dale, a look chilling Butch to the core. The dad-storm roiled and groaned and looked for outlet and Butch took another prudent step out of reach, careful to avoid the wolverine. Several people stopped and stared, but the presence of strangers was no deterrent and Butch held his breath, wondering how this would end. A frightened and frozen tableau stood arrayed about the insane-eyed dad, who remained locked on target as Mike disappeared around a corner with the still struggling Dale. Come on, he snarled, throwing his cigarette into an ashcan, then wheeled and moved into the crowd as it funneled down a hallway.

The rest of them looked at each other and gave a collective sigh of relief. Crisis averted. Butch looked at Mom expectantly, but all she did was frown at him and then slip behind dad. He and Cindy exchanged who knows? shrugs and fell in line, Art, unfortunately, still with them.

CHAPTER 3

The crowd tightened into a caterpillar moving in fits and starts. Butch had a hard time keeping up and half-feared getting lost, so he made a real effort to keep Mom in sight, shoving past people who told him how rude he was. Sorry, but he wasn't getting left behind, wandering the halls of this gigantic school forever, kids laughing at him by day and the wolverine chasing him at night. The crowd packed into a set of double doors then widened out so quickly that Butch stumbled through, losing his balance.

Stop fooling around, dad snapped from the side of some bleachers, the others already there and staring at Butch.

Jeez, wasn't my fault.

He looked down at the floor to avoid seeing the serves-him-right look in the eyes of adults filing past. Dad stepped up the bleachers and they trooped obediently behind, Butch taking extra care because falling would be final proof of his fooling around tendencies and dad would kill him right here, to the cheers of onlookers. They finally selected a row and squeezed in without further Butch mishap.

Whew.

And wow.

They were up so high! The floor was like a mile away and the people milling around down there, parents and dressed-up little kids mingled with green-gowned high-schoolers, were so tiny Butch couldn't recognize features.

Just how far have we climbed?

He wondered if they would, at some point, need oxygen. Breathing through those big rubber masks, like the one on dad's flight helmet … that'd be great.

He followed the bank of lights that stretched three miles across the ceiling to an endless set of ten-story bleachers on the opposite side peopled with the same well-dressed faceless creatures as on the floor. Man, this place was even bigger than dad's hanger on Ft. Sill, which was really just a giant metal tent open at either end, the helicopters arranged neatly down the sides. Sitting up here was like being on Mt. Scott, without the wind or cold. Butch suddenly felt afraid. He didn't want to fall.

He stole a glance at the others for reassurance. Art was absorbed in his belt buckle. Cindy stared around with wide, interested eyes and glanced at him and smiled and Butch wished Art wasn't between them so they could talk about how wonderful and scary this all was. Mom and dad sat frozen, cigarettes dangling, their face lines flowing down down down as they stared without movement at the hubbub below. They didn't look scared at all—they looked mad. And sad. At least Mom looked sad; dad never looked anything else but mad. Butch inwardly shuddered. He hoped it wasn't because of him.

Music started and Butch tried to locate it. Everyone stood up and blocked his view, so he stood with them and craned and swiveled and peeped to snatch a glimpse here and there between the wall of people. Green gowns marched through the double doors and into rows of folding chairs. The people in the stands watched, faces solemn but proud. Butch understood that: getting out of school forever was pretty important.

But, then, didn't you have to go to college or join the Army or something? Not much of an improvement.

The music ended and everyone sat and, five minutes later, Butch had lost all interest. Some green gown on the platform talked into a crappy microphone, echoes blurring the words.

Booooring.

Butch squirmed and Mom's ten-foot-long finger poked him hard in the ribs. Settle down! He glowered at her while Art smirked and he felt like cracking the little freak, but that would get him killed. Dad sat stone-faced, ignoring the transgression. Butch turned back to the sea of necks in front of him.

He wished he had a comic book. Maybe Magnus, Robot Slayer. Leeja Crane, wow, so gorgeous, like the Inhuman, Medusa, but not quite as beautiful. Magnus was perfect as her boyfriend. But how did he slice through robots with just his hands? Granted, he used that karate stuff the old guy taught him but, still, nobody can cut through metal without superpowers and Magnus didn't have any. Right? Butch wasn't sure. Magnus just might be really tough.

That's what he needed, Magnus arms. Slice through the people in front of him like so many robots and escape, leaving metallic heads and torsos twitching on the floor. Only they wouldn't be metallic; they'd be human and bloody and mangled. Butch felt a bit queasy.

Frank Vaughn had been all mangled and bloody and twisted. It was so bad, the paper only showed a black-and-white front-page photo of a body under a speckled sheet, two skinny, lifeless arms out and next to his sides. The coffin was closed and Howie said that's because Frank had no face.

No face.

The whole team had gone to the funeral. All of them had on white shirts and black pants, but Butch also wore his black jacket because Mom insisted. Coach Sasser asked, in the same