Meanwhile
Ford had been gone before he woke. Stan isn't surprised. His twin had been pissed last night and Stanford wasn't the kind to forgive easily. His brother would probably give him the cold shoulder for days before he finally cracked. And then they'd probably end up continuing their earlier fight.
Stan sighs as he stares at the underside of the top bunk's mattress and the supports that hold it up.
Maybe he should patch things up with Carla. It's been nearly a month, now; it's probably time to apologize whether he thinks he's wrong or not, right? It had been a stupid argument, anyway, and he misses his girlfriend. He squashes the terrified voice in his head that questions if Carla even still considers herself his girlfriend. Plus, if he can get Carla to forgive him, she'll likely help him with getting Ford to do the same. Of course, all of that will have to wait until his father decides to release him from what amounts to house arrest.
Stanley shifts uncomfortably and sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and resting his feet on the carpet. It hadn't really registered at the time - or, it had, but it hadn't sunk in yet - but Filbrick had nearly kicked him out of the house last night. An argument could even be made that the man had kicked him out, only to reverse the decision before Stan had managed to go anywhere - or even pick himself up from the sidewalk, for that matter.
Stanley eyes the bag shoved into the corner of his and Ford's shared closet. It had been pre-packed and ready to go. The damned thing even has his name written on one end of it in thick marker.
The teenager cautiously approaches the duffel bag as if it might rear up and bite him. It certainly feels as if it could. Something like morbid curiosity pushes him to explore the bag's contents, however, and in the next second he's pulled the duffel closer and undone the zipper.
The bag's contents are packed neatly, not that Stanley would expect anything else from his father. Five separate outfits plus a lightweight coat, a cheap pair of shoes, a collection of canned foods, bottles of water, a bar of soap, a toothbrush, a flashlight and extra batteries, a lighter, a pocketknife, a pair of brass knuckles, and - in a discreet internal pocket that Stanley had nearly overlooked - fifty dollars worth in bills of differing amounts.
Stan stares at the items, now spread out on the floor, and tries to untangle the knot of feelings in his chest. The collection is thorough, bordering on thoughtful, and he doesn't know what to make of it. This bag had to have been packed well before last night. This wasn't some slapdash job. Had Pops been planning to kick him out? For how long? Stan fights against the tears stinging his eyes and shakes his head in denial. There has to be another explanation. Pops wouldn't have changed his mind last minute on something he'd been planning for a long time.
The teenager takes a shaky breath. "Alright, Stan, think. You're smart enough to figure this out. Dad doesn't -" The words 'hate you' stick in his throat as he remembers the older man's rage, the way his father had manhandled him and then tossed him from the house entirely. The man had towered over him, unyielding form backlit by the light spilling out from the pawnshop's workroom and angry words echoing up and down the street. Stan forcefully pushes the memory away and reminds himself that he's sitting in the same room he's slept in for his whole life. He's still home. Filbrick had stopped. That has to count for something, too, doesn't it? Stan growls, frustrated with himself and his mixed up emotions. "He doesn't hate you," the young man insists, "Dad was just angry because you messed up Ford's big break."
His gaze falls to rest on the brass knuckles resting on the carpet in front of him. Stan picks them up with a frown, turning them over a few times before slipping one of them on to test the feel of it. He remembers seeing them in the pawnshop months ago. He remembers trying to talk his father into letting him have them. Filbrick's answer had been a flat 'no.' The coveted knuckledusters had disappeared from the shop sometime before Stan had thought to make a second attempt at talking his father around into relenting. He'd assumed they'd been bought by a customer; but here they are, like some perverse consolation prize.
He recognizes most of the clothes as pieces that had disappeared from the wash at some point. Guess he knows where they got to, now. But... Stan's brow furrows. Some of Ford's clothes had vanished around the same time, hadn't they? He's pretty sure they had. (His twin had talked him into helping search the laundry room for an answer to the disappearing clothes mystery. They hadn't been successful in their sleuthing, at the time.)
Is there a matching bag with his twin's name on it? Stan's stomach fills with ice at the thought before he vehemently rejects it.
"No. No, Pops wouldn't do that. He, he likes Ford. Ford actually does things that make Dad proud. Ford isn't the spare twin." The admission leaves a bitterness in his mouth but calms his nerves some. "Ford was wanted from the beginning. Ford isn't the leech." After last night, he can't keep denying the facts. The older man had spelled it all out far too clearly to allow Stanley to keep denying the truth.
He wants to be angry about that, part of him is, but it's hard to hold onto anger when there's so much dread working to smother it. Still, he's here, home, so maybe there's still a chance to fix things and change his father's mind.
His eyes wander over to the small stack of bills and Stan frowns. Fifty bucks. That's more than he usually has in his wallet at any one time. It's... a lot more than he'd expect his father to give 'a liar and a cheat' for any reason, actually. Did Filbrick even remember there was cash hidden away in the bag to begin with? And, more importantly, fifty dollars was enough to do something impressive with, wasn't it? Would that be enough to change the man's opinion of his worth? Maybe he could -
"Stanley?" his mother's voice calls through the closed door, "It's lunch time."
"Just a minute!" Stan calls back, half panicked. He rises swiftly, snatching up the banknotes as he goes and shoving them into his wallet before opening the door for Maude. "Hey, Ma," he greets.
"You don't look like you slept a wink," she accuses in a worried tone as Stanley accepts the plate of food from her hands.
Stan sits down on the edge of his bunk, takes a moment to consider the re-heated meatloaf that's been all-but-drowned in ketchup, and says, "I got some sleep, just not much." He shoves a forkful into his mouth and looks at his mother again. "It doesn't look like you got much, either."
Maude sighs and glances at the wall that separates Ford's and Stan's bedroom from Filbrick's office. "No," she agrees, "He didn't come to bed at all last night."
Stan tries not to flinch at the admission. He'd already known, of course. The apartment has thin walls and he'd listened to his father's mutterings late into the night, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Most of of it had been spoken lowly enough that the walls had managed to muffle the words beyond recognition. What little he had been able to make out, he hadn't understood.
Maude wrings her hands as she says, "I haven't seen him break down like that since... ever. I've never seen him like that before. Not even when your grandfather passed." She frowns, lips pinched into a worried curve and the tension around her eyes become just a little more pronounced.
"So, where's Ford?" Stanley asks just to change the subject and hopefully chase that expression from his mother's face. He can't help but feel like he's responsible for putting it there to begin with and he hates seeing her upset.
"Went to the library, early this morning," Maude answers, "I'm pretty sure he wanted out of the house as much as anything. I don't think he plans to be back until dinner. Leslie's taken Rachel out for the day, too." The emptied duffle bag and the items strewn across the carpet finally catch her attention. "Make sure you put everything back in the bag, Stanley. Your father will want it back. And don't try to swipe the cash," she warns, "We both know that will be the first thing he checks."
Stanley looks up at her and can't help the caught expression that covers his face. He swallows his latest forkful of tomato-drenched-meat and asks, "How'd you know?" He had thought he'd hidden away any evidence of his theft, but apparently he'd missed something. (Is it theft? It feels like it is with the way his mother is staring him down.)
Maude raises an eyebrow at her youngest son. "How do you think?"
"I, I don't know?" he stutters, a new fear joining those already threatening to crush him. Ma didn't want him gone, too, did she?
A groan drifts through the apartment from the direction of Filbrick's office and forestalls whatever the woman would have said in response. In the sudden silence, Stanley can just make out his father's voice, "What the devil?"
Maude immediately returns to looking worried. "It sounds like your father is finally awake," she comments, "I should check on him."
Before she can leave, Filbrick speaks again, "I outta be dead."
Stan and Maude both freeze at the simple sentence. The boy watches as his mother's face pales. He thinks his own may be doing the same thing.
"I ought to be dead. Why aren't I dead?" his father's voice asks, cutting through the suffocating quiet he'd caused only a moment before. Stan shudders at the genuine confusion in the man's tone.
Maude draws in a sharp breath and hurries out of the room.
"Why aren't I dead?" Filbrick is practically growling now.
Stanley sets his plate aside with shaking hands. He'd thought nothing could be more disturbing than listening to his father cry. He'd been wrong. This is much worse.
A series of quick knocks echo into the room from the hall. "Filbrick?" Ma calls, tone stressed and fretful.
A pause. And then, like he's been brought back to his senses and away from whatever momentary insanity had gripped him, the man replies, "Maude?"
"Fil, are you alright?" Stan hears his mother ask.
"Yes." A lie. "No." Too honest. "I'll figure it out." Stan relaxes the tiniest bit. That much, at least, sounds like his father.
"Fil, how much did you drink last night?" Ma's worry is practically tangible.
"Too much." Filbrick answers gruffly before both of his parents start to speak too quietly for Stanley to easily understand them.
Maybe if he focused harder he'd be able to follow the conversation. For once, Stanley finds he doesn't want to know what his parents are discussing. He gets up long enough to re-close the door his mother had left open in her hasty departure but he then crawls back into his bed, more because he isn't sure what else to do than anything.
For a few dearly needed minutes, Filbrick's and Maude's voices remain relatively calm and quiet. He can almost pretend that everything is normal. But then his mother's worry seems to reach its boiling point and she snaps, "Well, something happened to set you off! And you're not telling me, so what 'm I supposed to do, Filbrick?"
Stan holds his breath and strains his ears for the response, but, of course, it's said too lowly for him to catch. The one part of the conversation he actually wants to hear slips frustratingly past him in a soft rumble that he has no hope of deciphering.
Stanley scowls up at the top bunk. Just his luck.
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