A week ago, in the midst of a case, I went to my mother's house for a uniform and discovered a side of my parents I didn't know existed.
In thinking about it over the rest of the week, it started to make sense. A controlling, abusive father, a neurotic mother, and two sons prone to getting into trouble…it would have been more shocking if we'd had dinner together on a night that wasn't a major holiday. Our house had been built on secrets and lies, not hugs and family time.
Still though, when Mom had pushed me aside, moved the clothes and slid open that false door, an insatiable desire started building in my mind. I would have to get another look in that closet. I needed to know if it was hiding some new insight into our family dynamics or just the same stories I already knew.
It would cost me three dinner dates, one Saturday of shopping, and my favorite sniper scope, but Fiona finally agreed to a deal to get my mother out of the house long enough for me to get in and out without being noticed.
She dropped me off down the block, then texted me briefly when they were gone. All clear. Casa Tua Sat.
I rolled my eyes at her extravagant dinner request as I let myself into the quiet house. The smell of thirty-five years of smoke hit me as I entered. Even when I'd been away for so long, when I'd been overseas, I could catch a whiff of Mom's brand of cigarettes and find myself transported back to this house and the miserable existence we'd hidden within these walls.
I pulled open the closet door like I was Howard Carter, first venturing into Tut's tomb. I half expected some kind of booby trap even though I'd just been here last week. Mom's blouses hung in front of the false wall so I pushed them to one side. I found a grip on the back wall and slid it open to reveal the memories my father had left behind.
The first thing I touched was the trophy…my trophy.
When they'd handed it to me as a child, after a successful karate tournament, it had been bigger than my head. I was immensely proud of that thing and held it tightly against my chest as my friend's mother drove us home from Orlando. 'Maybe now,' I'd thought. 'Maybe now he'll see I'm not a baby, that I'm tough like him…like he wants me to be.'
He was waiting on the porch when we rolled up. I hopped out and carried my bag on one shoulder, holding the trophy carefully with both hands. He waved politely at the car and she drove off down the road.
"What'cha got there, Son?"
"I won, Sir," I told him proudly. Nate and I, we never called him dad to his face.
It was always hard to read him, but even at my age I knew that look was not pride. It was not the respect I'd been hoping for. "You forgot to clean your room before you left," he stated. You'd think I'd force-fed my brother poison.
There was a tightness in my chest at that moment as my heart started to flutter and dance and wound itself tighter and tighter within my rib cage. I knew he was wrong. I knew better than to leave chores unfinished by now, but you didn't argue with Frank Westen. Maybe Nate had been in my room. Or maybe he just wanted to knock me down a notch.
"Lemme see that thing." His speech was slightly slurred, but he was surprisingly sober for that late in the evening.
I stood stock still, clutching my prize with white knuckles.
"Give it to me, boy," his voice boomed down our quiet street.
My arm shook as I passed it between us. He looked it over disdainfully. He dragged the little karate-kicking figure along the step next to his feet. The head of the figure left little specks of gold colored paint on the ground. It bent and didn't return to its proper position when he pulled it up again.
"They gave you a piece of crap," he laughed and snapped the little man off completely. "Guess that's what you deserve, isn't it boy?" he stood up and threw the disfigured plastic piece at me before carrying the rest of the trophy into the house.
I'd never seen it again until last week. I didn't know he'd kept it and I had a feeling I'd never know why.
A particular plaid caught my eye and I eased an old button down shirt out from the middle of the pile. My finger popped through a charred hole in the sleeve as I unfolded it.
He was soldering at the workbench in the garage. The fumes were strong from the melting metal. I walked over with the loot I'd been charged with procuring from the hardware store. "Those are the wrong fucking plugs, you idiot," was his only response when I reached up and gingerly placed the box next to his project.
I'd been nine and still took words like idiot to heart.
"Sorry," I choked out.
"You sure are," he grumbled. He brushed an arm over to knock the box of spark plugs off the workbench. It tumbled to the floor but my attention had been drawn to the soldering iron. With the sweep of his arm, the cord caught on a button. I reached out a hand to release it, but he'd moved and I'd startled and somehow the tip of the soldering iron ended up touching his forearm.
"Jesus!" he'd screamed and swung his singed arm around wildly. "What the fuck was that you, fucking moron?"
Before I knew it he was advancing at me with the soldering iron. I already knew better than to scream, so I ran away instead.
"Big baby," I heard him laugh behind me.
I refolded the shirt and tucked it back into the stack. My hand brushed against cool glass as I straightened the pile to its previous position and the remains of a set of shot glasses clinked together like little bells.
I'd come home the day after final report cards had arrived in the mail…my freshman year. My grades were actually pretty good, all things considered. It was only three o'clock but he already sat at the dining room table with the bottle of scotch and a shot glass. "You'll never amount to anything," he'd said as I passed by. "You're just a worthless piece of shit."
"Pot calling the kettle black," I'd mumbled to myself.
He had good aim for a drunk and the shot glass smashed against the back of my head as I left the room. After all those years of experience I was already expecting something, so when it hit, I just kept walking.
I sighed and took a step back. Taking in the full length of the closet. It was mostly full of clothing and a few odds and ends. I couldn't place most of the things, probably a combination of blocking out bad memories and having left home so early.
The toes of some old work boots poked out from underneath a pile of pants. I pushed the pants aside and pulled out the boots.
Those boots were the only thing I could see from my position on my back on the creeper under the Charger. My father paced back and forth, berating me over my shoddy work from a month ago and how that had led to the car breaking down earlier that afternoon while he was on his way to the track.
I would never bother to tell him I could see where someone else had tried to redo the wiring. There was no point in that, just like there was no point in listening to his rant. I was older, stronger, wiser, and I was starting to find my place in the world.
His boots pounded almost rhythmically and my brain turned it into a calming mantra…three more weeks, three more weeks, three more weeks.
In three more weeks I'd be old enough to leave and never come back.
He slammed the door after himself as he stalked out of the garage. I finished what I was working on and then slid out from under the car. The engine roared with a turn of the key and then settled into a purr. I folded my arms across the top of the steering wheel and rested my head against them, listening to the engine and letting the vibrations soothe my temper.
The engine I heard was suddenly not a memory. Car doors slammed shut and I knew my time was up. I tucked the shoes back in place, slid the false door shut, repositioned the hanging clothes and clicked the door shut before plopping down on the couch. I crossed my ankles over the coffee table nonchalantly and picked up the nearest periodical to breeze through.
"Michael!" my mother exclaimed as she stepped through the front door. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh nothing," I replied casually. "Just came over for some of dad's tools but this magazine caught my eye."
She dropped her bag next to the door and stalked across the room. "Oh really," she said in a voice that I knew meant I was about to be caught. "That's the free magazine the AARP sends me. You had some burning retirement questions you needed answered?" She rolled her eyes and wandered into the kitchen to light a cigarette.
I looked down at the magazine like I was suddenly holding a dead rat and dropped it back on the table. I glared at Fiona, still standing by the front door. She shrugged her shoulders and made a face.
"Well all right, Mom, Fi and I need to get going. Talk to you later!"
She was sputtering my name as I closed the door between us, but I couldn't handle a conversation with her right now.
"Thirty minutes, Fi? Really?" I was incredulous.
"She knew I was up to something! She kept asking what you were doing today, why you couldn't come with us. I couldn't help it. She's good, Michael, she's really good. If I didn't know any better I'd say she…"
My eyes narrowed at her instinctively. "Thirty minutes means I'm keeping my scope."
"But, Michael," she pouted.
"No scope."
"Fine." We climbed into her car. "Can I at least borrow it next week? There's this Armenian arms dealer coming to town and I'm planning this-"
"Fi!"
"You're no fun, Michael." She paused while she started the car. "So did you find anything interesting?"
There were not many memories from that time that I was interested in sharing with anyone, not even Fi.
"No," I told her. "Just a lot of old junk."