A/N: Much love and thanks as always to Amanda Hawthorne, Purdy's Pal and Obsidian Empress for reading through this and helping me with my writers block. Thanks to Daisy Day, BurnerNoelle and CJ for being the lovely people that they are. Love to all the Burner Girls on FB and Twitter and many thanks to everyone who keeps reading and reviewing while I try not to let RL impede my writing!
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Miami, Christmas 1984
It had been with a huge exhalation of relief that Michael D. Westen, US Army Recruit, had stowed his gear in the overhead compartment of the L1011 TriStar aircraft and had settled into the aisle seat of the center row on the Delta Airlines plane that would eventually take him to Miami.
The flight had lasted two hours, give or take, the same amount time, more or less, it had actually taken him to travel from his posting in Fort Benning to Hartsfield –Jackson Atlanta International Airport. But somehow the two hour drive with his distant relatives, Shane J. Westen and his grandfather Levi, had seemed more like two days or maybe even two months. He'd been so eager to get to the airport that the time had dragged insufferably, but once he had gotten into the air, thoughts of his destination had made the trip pass in the blink of an eye.
That he still had relatives at all living in his paternal point of origin, the great State of Georgia, had been news to him when he had encountered his second cousin in the reception center at Fort Benning. Standing with hundreds of other nearly naked and newly shorn men, who were both utterly bored yet equally shell shocked, was not the best of circumstances in which to conduct a family reunion of sorts. But at least it had gotten him a ride to Atlanta instead of having expend his meager money on a bus ticket or exercising his thumb.
An added twist of fate that had landed him with another Westen to take care of was the Army's fondness for the buddy system once basic training had commenced. Something in the DI's perverse sense of humor had given the man great delight in screaming out their mutual surnames and making them guess which recruit he had actually been addressing. The guy'd made Sergeant Foley look like a complete pansy. Still, in retrospect, it had been far easier than trying to keep his kid brother out of trouble, both in his house and out on the streets.
Mercifully, Shane had been in relatively good shape due to the southern obsession with high school football and Michael's years of martial arts had paid off in the first three brutal weeks of Red Phase training. They had survived long enough for the Christmas Exodus, those ten miraculous days either side of December 25th during which anything Army virtually came to a halt, to interrupt their basic training and allow them both as 17 year olds to go home on leave.
Not that he'd had any particular desire to return to the household he had escaped from roughly seven weeks earlier. But now that the eldest Westen boy had business to conduct back in Miami and very little in the way of liquid assets or resources with which to accomplish the trip, when his mother had suddenly come up with the cash for the plane ticket, he hadn't been inclined to argue. His alternative was three days by train or bus just to get back to South Florida, notwithstanding the three days that travel would consume on the other end of his leave. At the time, he'd decided that if he'd survived seventeen years, he could somehow manage to endure approximately seven more days if he had to.
Once he was airborne, the teenager outfitted in an Army uniform had finally allowed himself to be grateful for his distant relatives' early rising habits. Levi had insisted that he be out of Atlanta before rush hour traffic, which meant not only a pre-dawn departure from Fort Benning, but also plenty of time to catch the earliest possible flight back to Miami. This had enabled him to make better travel arrangements from the airport to his former home than having to contact his family for a ride.
With thoughts of his destination on his mind again, Michael tried to keep the ghosts of Christmas past at bay with little success. As if holidays didn't have enough potential for disaster, his mother would insist on a family portrait right before Christmas Eve dinner. The assumption that their hunger would ensure their cooperation normally had been sound. Her cooking had always been erratic enough without running the risk of letting it get cold. She'd done it before successfully for a number of years.
But in 1982, as soon as his mom had brought out the Polaroid, his father had started harassing Nate about how unkempt his hair and clothing were for the picture, going as far to suggest that they return the younger boy's Christmas presents as he was obviously incapable of maintaining the new bike and various toys he'd received. It wasn't the worst thing his dad had ever done on Christmas, but the older Michael got, the less he could tolerate Frank Westen's abuses. Who the hell did the SOB think he was?
Michael had snorted out loud then, caught up in the memory and earning an odd look from the senior citizen to his right who'd had her nose buried in her knitting up to that point. They both had smiled uncomfortably at each other for a moment and then looked away. The bright red garment on her lap…
A homemade sweater… He'd shaken his head and had looked down the aisle, trying to distract himself from the reminiscence and failing miserably again.
It wasn't so much that he had minded being given that hideous red-orange sweater she'd made for him as a Christmas present; he knew his mother was trying to save the money she had to get gifts for his little brother. Nate was a kid after all and his older brother had not only been earning his own money, and occasionally supporting the family, but he'd been buying his own clothes since middle school.
No, it'd been her insistence in 1982 that he wear it for the portrait that had ticked him off. That and dear old Dad's self-righteousness bullshit, including how ridiculous he'd looked with his long hair and his over-sized print shirt. Recruit Westen had run a hand over his nearly bald head then and sighed again. Looking back now, he realized his hair then had been so long and curly in the back and so flat on top that It had practically been a mullet. But Jennifer had liked it that way, so…. He'd supposed he should be grateful to the Army for cutting it all off before he went home. It would save a lot of arguments on both fronts.
Michael had clearly recalled his father's appearance from his trucking driving days after Nate was born and it was anything but refined. Just because the old man had been upgrading his own wardrobe whilst hanging around the clubs and sucking up to the parasitic losers that teemed around wise guys didn't mean that Frank Westen was suddenly sophisticated. Finally, his antipathy had gotten the best of him.
"Leave Nate alone. You don't keep anything up around here anymore, anyway, I do! You haven't for-"
Next thing he'd remembered, he was flat on the floor while his mother had been screaming that she was going to throw the whole dinner in the trash if they didn't line for the picture and quit fighting.
As it was, Nate had been the only who'd looked happy in the picture because as soon as his mom had realized how big a bruise was going to show up on her oldest son's cheek just below his eye, she'd had to cancel her plans to drag them all to church after dinner. She'd had to content herself with the photo and the silence as they all poured copious amounts of lumpy gravy over the dried out, over cooked turkey.
When he'd been asked by the stewardess to return his seat back and tray table to its secure and upright position, Madeline's son had finally shaken off the memories as the plane prepared to land.
It had only taken a moment of searching in the arrivals terminal of Miami International Airport to spot the person he was looking for. Mrs. Watkins, her tight mahogany curls wreathed in a halo of cigarette smoke, was heavily made up and hard to miss. He called out her name and she spun around smiling.
"Michael? Sweet thing, is that really you? Lord, child, what have they done to you?"
Despite the cigarette dangling precariously from her teeth and dangerously close his uniform, Recruit Westen still leaned in and let Marvella Watkins hug him as long as she wanted. It felt really good.
"Come on, sugar, let's get your stuff."
"Got it, Miz W," he assured her as he hefted the backpack onto his shoulder. The short, dark skinned woman in the four inch purple platform shoes and tight fitting mauve waitress uniform turned and headed towards the arrivals driveway, beaming warmly at the young man beside her.
"They ain't feeding you at all, are they? And I thought you was skinny before, mmm, mmm, what a shame. They sure ain't been spending my tax dollars on takin' care of you, baby!" Mrs. Watkins led him towards to her dark purple Cadillac Coup deVille. Her vehicle had originally been gold before he and Andre had been forced to give it a paint job in her favorite color to cover up its involvement in a hit.
"Thanks for coming to get me, Miz W," Michael said as he climbed into the passenger seat.
"Don' you worry none, darlin'. I know what it's like at your place, baby. You can always call me when you need somethin', ya hear?"
He smiled brightly at his best friend's mother. Yes, he had always been able to count of Mrs. Watkins.
"Do you remember the time that customer stiffed you on the tip and then accused me of stealing it?" The image of her dragging a man twice her size out of the diner by his ear, taking Michael's side and standing up for him, still had the power to lift his spirits, even after a decade.
"Damn fool done picked on the wrong boy that time," she chuckled. "I knew you would never do me like that, sugar." Her smile turned into a frown. "Now, If it had been 'dre or Nate…" she lamented and then brightened. "Stupid chump, I'd whupped his ass if I hadn't had a double dinner service goin'!'"
They chatted amiably on the ride back to his house, mostly about what the Army and the first part of basic training had been like. When she let him know that her oldest boy had gone back into the gang, her surrogate son was clenching his jaw in suppressed fury. His childhood best friend had made a promise to him. After Michael had helped him cover up being the wheel man on a driver by shooting using his mom's car, Andre had vowed that he would get out and stay out of gang life for good.
It seemed all too soon that they were parked in front of the curb of the house on Shady Lane and he let a very long, low breath, which then caused Mrs. Watkins to let loose with one of her famous gaffaws.
"You know my door's always open for you, sugar. You come on over whenever you want and we'll see what we can do about fattening you up, son." Her teeth flashed white as she grinned widely. "Though your mama's cooking might taste a tad bit better now that you been living on Army food."
He laughed out loud himself then, grateful to her for her attempt to ease the tension. Michael leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, coming away with some of her rouge on his face.
"Thank you," he said with a sincere smile, swiping at the coloring on his skin. "I just wanted to—"
"Go on now, git on out the car," Marvella ordered good-naturedly. "I gotta git to work, sweet thing."
The older Westen offspring soon found himself standing all alone on sidewalk, back pack in hand, staring at the front door and trying to work up the intestinal fortitude to go in. After a few moments, the young recruit knew with a certainty that he was not only in Miami to clear away the criminal activities from his past that would impede his entrance into the Army Special Forces, but also to cut all ties with his past. Nothing was going to stop him from pursuing his future as an elite U.S. military man.
Michael had known from the instant he'd decided to be an Army Ranger that he would be perfect for the job. All the skills he'd acquired growing up in Westen household, out on the streets of Miami and in the surrounding environs of South Florida had served him in that choice. He was stealthy, aware of his environment at all times, physically well-conditioned, mentally tough, prepared for flight or fight at a moment's notice and thoroughly accustomed to getting smacked around. As far as Frank's son was concerned, he'd been groomed for Special Forces from the day he'd been born, intentionally or not.
His mother had mistaken his anxiety for "leaving home" jitters. But it'd been for her sake and Nate's that Michael had been concerned and feeling somewhat guilty over since he'd been actually walking away from them. Prior to that, his dominant emotion in dealing with his family had been resentment.
As he crept towards the driveway on the far side of the house, he was reminded again that he had been doing reconnaissance virtually since he was in kindergarten. That other thing the Army wanted him to do, that trusting his compatriots, that was less natural for him. He felt as though the whole relying on your buddies was in reality more like carrying their load as well as your own, one of the many things he'd left home to get away from. He had precious few people he trusted and, just like Andre, even the ones you had trusted could potentially betray you.
When he cleared the trees and the garage came into view, he was relieved to see the Charger was gone, but dismayed to see Madeline's burnt orange '72 Buick Skylark sitting there with the hood up and various tools and greasy engine parts scattered around the front of the car. Recruit Westen rapidly assessed where the majority of his leave was destined to be spent if he didn't figure out what was wrong with it quickly.
The young man hesitated at the entrance to the kitchen and set his backpack on the ground near his boot. It felt strange to be back. It certainly wasn't homesickness that had overcome him or a rush of fond memories that was overwhelming him, but some unnamed emotion held him rooted to the concrete outside the back door. He remembered when he had left here, ostensively to enter the Army with $50 bucks in his pocket, a change of clothes in his backpack and a shower of tears from his mother, but in truth he had gone to his girlfriend's home to hide out while he prepared for and passed the GED. The Army wouldn't take him without a high school diploma unless he got special waivers.
He'd been totally dismayed when the recruiter advised him they would see in June after graduation. There'd be no way in hell he was going to go back to that house for another six months, not a chance he was going to give the old man an occasion to change his mind after he'd miraculously signed the papers.
Michael still didn't know what his mom had done to get Frank Westen's signature on those forms, but he wasn't going to hang around and take the beatings and the abuse from that bastard once there was an end in sight. Since it was obvious his Dad couldn't wait to get rid of him, it would be first class foolishness to stay within arm's reach of the man or let his guard down by sleeping under his roof.
So when the back door banged open and Madeline Westen emerged, perpetual cigarette in hand, it was hard to say who was more startled between mother and son. Michael couldn't exactly say he'd missed his mom and she barely recognized the bald, slim stranger in uniform standing on her driveway.
"Michael?" she questioned, like she didn't believe what her eyes were seeing.
"Uh, yeah, Ma…" What do you say to that? Does the haircut and uniform make that much difference?
"Oh, Michael, honey, you're home!" She was down the stairs in an instant, crushing him in a bear hug.
"Mom, mom, please…. " He pulled away from her after a moment. "You burn it; I buy it."
It wouldn't be the first time I'd paid for her mistakes, he groused internally. But what he actually said was, "Where's Dad?"
Madeline rolled her eyes in the general direction of her dismantled vehicle, as she released her son and huffed. "Don't get me started about your father."
"What's wrong with the car now?" he asked, personally assured that he didn't really want the answer.
"I had to take Nate down to Biscayne Bay for a dentist appointment and it started making this really loud clicking noise and you know you have to drive through Little Haiti to get to his office. I was getting worried that if something happened—"
"Wait, wait, stop, when did the dentist move out to Biscayne?"
"The oral surgeon," she specified. "Nate had a tooth knocked out after school."
"When did that happen?" Michael queried, already assuming that his father had done the deed.
The spiky blonde crossed her arms over her chest and fixed him with a glare. "Two weeks after you left those senior high kids that used to bother Nate figured out you were gone and jumped him after school." She took another drag of her cigarette. "I called and gave the principle a piece of my mind, but your father said he would handle it. "
Her son knew there was a "but" coming. "And…."
"I think he settled it with a baseball bat. You know, your daddy could have gotten in a lot of trouble, an adult hitting those boys, Michael. They would have never bothered Nate if you had still been here."
Her oldest son groaned out loud. He had settled it two years ago with just the threat of a baseball bat.
"By the way, your brother is very upset that you didn't say goodbye to him before you left."
"Mom… " the teenager began in a pained voice. "Nate was at school when I left and you told me you didn't want me to be here when Dad got back from spending his day drinking and losing money on Jai Lai, remember?"
Sometimes his mother's selective memory could be a real pain. The day he'd left, his father had taken off with the "bill money" to go to Dania Jai Lai. She must've fallen trying to grab her husband and prevent him from leaving because that's where Michael had found Madeline, sitting on the stairs nursing a lot of scrapes and bruises, when he'd returned to from making arrangements with his girlfriend to move into her mom's condo.
He'd given her all the money he had, save $50, and had only taken a change of clothes. The Army wouldn't have allowed him to bring any more cash and he couldn't arouse his mom's suspicions by taking more clothes. He'd had enough clothes at Jennifer's already to get by for near future. Caught between his anger over the situation and the reality of knowing that he wasn't truly going away to Fort Benning, but rather across town to hide out in an ocean front condo while he was "finishing" high school had caused the lump that had formed in his throat.
"Well, at least you'll be here when Nate gets home from school." Maddie paused as she saw the wariness in his expression. "Won't you?"
Her car being broken down presented him with a big problem. Michael had a meeting after working hours downtown off Southeast 5th Street at the Brickell on the River condos and he didn't plan on missing it; however, he didn't plan on having to steal a car to get there either. That was not something he needed to get involved in as a recruit trying to get into the Rangers. He was here to try to clean up his criminal background, not add to it.
He closed his eyes for a second and tried to recall where the Metrobus stop closest to the house was.
"You're not going to stay and help fix the car?" the older woman demanded, affronted he might do otherwise.
"Fine," Michael snapped. He picked up his bag and headed towards the side entrance. He had a little time, but he needed to change into some work clothes before he got anywhere near that dirty, grimy oil-encrusted mess.
"It's so good to have you back home, honey," Maddie rejoiced as her wayward boy flung open the back door.
"Yeah, just great," he retorted as he disappeared into the house. As Frank's son passed through the kitchen, he noticed the greasy fingerprints everywhere, fingerprints he would have gotten a beating for had he been here to be accused of making them. An intense bitterness rose up in Michael as he passed through the laundry room towards his old bedroom. But what he saw when he opened that door left him speechless, albeit momentarily.
What the f-? He stood there blinking at the virtually empty room so long it attracted his mother's attention. The book shelves were gone, his model airplanes, his martial arts trophies, his Star Wars spacecrafts that had sat upon them missing as well. Nothing was left in the room but the bed and the worn-out dresser that he'd had his entire life. Even his second hand TV and his new stereo were gone.
"Where's my stuff?" he questioned fiercely, rounding on Madeline as she joined him in the doorway.
"Well, we didn't hear a word from you for weeks, Michael, and your father just thought you wouldn't be coming back here for any of it, so he took it down to the pawn shop. I saved some of it for you, your model airplanes and some of your books and papers, that sort of thing. They're in the closet."
Michael crossed the room in three long strides and threw the wooden door open so hard it smacked against the wall. It was bare of his things except the two cardboard squares on the floor with his name on them. "What the hell, he even took my clothes to consignment?"
"You didn't need them when you left for the Army, that's what you told me," the blonde countered. "Those old T-shirts and ripped-up jeans you used to wear working on the cars are still in the dresser."
Michael clenched his eyes, mouth and fists tightly shut, trying to get his spiraling anger back under control. He had taken hell off of a professional asshole, an Army drill instructor for three weeks, and he had never once been as close to losing it as he was right now. Now he needed clothes and a car.
"You know, Michael, if you stayed here and gotten a scholarship like Mrs. Reynolds' daughter instead of going away to the Army, then-"
"I'm going to see Jennifer," he announced through gritted teeth. He'd taken most of the things he could that he'd needed or cared about, including his better clothing, to his girlfriend's place weeks ago. The only upside in this whole disaster was that condo was not too far from where he had to be tonight.
"umm, Michael…"
Something in Madeline's voice sent a wave of dread washing over him. He knew she wasn't going to complain about him not working on the car. No, that tone had only one purpose: to deliver bad news.
"I don't know how to tell you this, honey," she said, looking down at the carpet. "But I ran into Patrick Carney's mother at the grocery store. You remember Patrick, tall, blonde kid from your high school?"
The young man turned around slowly and gazed upon the woman who had given birth to him with a blank expression as Michael tried to recall why anything should upset him about Patrick Carney, a jock with more money than brains that he'd had little use for since junior high. Did he die or something?
"Well, you see, he proposed last week to… uh, Jennifer. Apparently they've been seeing each other since… I wasn't sure if she'd told you yet, but I didn't want you to go over there and be surprised. Of course, you shouldn't be surprised because if you'd have been here instead of taking off and …."
The rest of what his mother said failed to penetrate his consciousness. No, Patrick Carney wasn't dead.
Because he was going to kill him.
TBC
If anyone is interested you can hear Madeline and Michael discussing this scenario about Michael learning Patrick Carney had stolen his girlfriend during his first leave from the Army in Episode 5.05 Square One. The story of Michael's black eye on Christmas in 1982 can be found in Episode 2.11 Hot Spot.
