The Connection
Beecher felt bad. There was no use in denying it any longer. He felt really bad. He hated it that he felt that way, but he couldn't help it.
*Some revenge*, he thought, *I'm the one that ends up feeling like shit. Now how *can* that be right?*
He sighed wearily as he stared at the bunk that once belonged to young Andrew Schillinger, now deceased. Yes, everything had gone according to plan. He had hurt Schillinger in the worst way he could think of and he was glad of that, but it wasn't until the boy was dead that he'd realized how much also hurt himself too. It seemed like no matter what he did he couldn't manage to stop the hurting. He imagined what it would feel like if someone tried to hurt him by destroying his children. Hell, he didn't have far to go: Schillinger had already threatened as much when Beecher first arrived.
*My sons and your wife*, he'd purred, *My sons and your daughter*.
Even know it made Beecher shudder to think of those words, but at the time they sent him into a blind panic that was of yet, still unequaled in his mind. Even realizing what he'd gotten himself into with Schillinger wasn't as frightening. In spite of himself, and all his nemesis had done, Beecher began to wonder if even *Schillinger* deserved that kind of pain.
And the worst part, the part that wounded him the most, was that fact that he'd actually started to like the kid. Andrew was really not all bad. Sure, he was strung out, prone to his father's rascist rhetoric and hatemongering influence. But deep down, as Beecher spent more time with him and began to understand him a little better, he could see that young Andy Schillinger was not much more than a scared child, a pitiful boy, hiding behind a little smartass façade and beliefs that had been drummed into him since he was knee high.
It surprised Beecher more than he knew to see how much Andrew responded to a little positive reinforcement, how much he wanted to change, and how quickly he learned to trust, but it thrilled him to. It felt nice to have someone to look up to him again. Yes, it *was* part of the plan, but it was more than that. It made Beecher feel good, the way he did when Holly sat on his lap and he twirled his fingers through her blond curls or when he stood outside their house watching Gary ride his two-wheeler (complete with training wheels), or when his baby boy fell asleep in his arms and Beecher inhaled his sweet powdery infant-scent. He felt like he hadn't felt in a long time: like a father. A father who helped kill a boy. A boy who trusted him.
Beecher rubbed at his temple, vainly trying to rub the guilt a way. It had to be done, he kept telling himself. Schillinger had to pay for what he did to him. To all of them, especially...
He glanced out of his plexiglas pod at Cyril O'Reilly who was sitting in the pod he shared with his brother and endlessly bouncing a little red ball. He was very like a child himself, Beecher noticed, thanks to his accident which Beecher really didn't know that much about. Ryan hadn't seen fit to confide in him too much since they stopped getting high together. He only knew about the accident the way he knew about many things around OZ: through the prison grapevine. It was also how he heard about what happened between Schillinger and Cyril, even before he'd heard it from Ryan. It made Beecher angry to hear it--very angry. He barely knew Cyril, of course, mostly saw him trailing his brother through Em City like a wide-eyed puppy or propped in front of the T.V. during "Miss Sally's Schoolyard". But something about the man, grown and well-made muscled but impossibly open and innocent, made Beecher like him. He was one of the very few residents of Em City who *didn't* cause trouble. Unfortunately for him, he did seem to have trouble thrust upon him at times. Beecher knew the feeling well.
There weren't very many times since Cyril came to OZ that he didn't feel scared and confused (and more and more often lately, although he tried to fight it) angry. Angry that he had to leave the home he was familiar with and comfortable in to come to a place where he the sun didn't shine, nobody seemed happy, and where bad was good. He still didn't feel completely safe, eventhough being with his brother helped a lot. Not since the big man with the bald head tricked him into the broom closet by promising to take him to Ryan. He desperately wanted friends that he could trust and talk to, but he didn't know who he could trust. Ryan didn't trust, not anyone, and Ryan didn't ever seem to be afraid. How could he?
He hadn't known exactly how to react when he got there or why he had to be there in the first place. He recognized the fact, of course, that he had done a very bad thing, but he didn't do it because he wanted to hurt anyone. In fact, he could still remember the way his heart caught in his throat the moment he pulled the cord around Preston Nathan's neck and felt the delicate bones in his throat snap. The sound scared him, but he had to do it, because Ryan told him to, needed him to, and the only thing that scared him more than Vern Schillinger was disappointing his brother so much so that he didn't want him around anymore. He would do anything in the world for Ryan.
Still, that little ball of anger in the pit of his stomach squeezed at him, seeming to grow bigger day by day... and more painful. It hurt him to be mad at Ryan. It hurt him to remember what it felt like to kill someone who'd never done a single thing to hurt *him*.
His waking hours were plagued by thoughts of guilt and fear, but neither could he escape through sleep. His nights were haunted by unpleasantly frequent nightmares that usually had two themes: Schillinger and his two buddies in the closet telling him what he had to do to see his brother, and him strangling the life out of an innocent man. Except sometimes it was his own face he saw turning purple and bloated as cruel hands did their business.
*Why Ryan*, he thought, *why did you make me? Why did you make me do that?* He stopped bouncing the ball when it turned into a red blur, obscured by newly shed tears. Ryan wouldn't want him to cry about it; he'd get angry if he did. He wiped at his eyes and scanned the common area of Em City for his brother. Instead, he noticed a pair of liquid blue eyes staring at him from another pod. Finding no particular sense of threat from the gaze, he offered Beecher a tentative smile. Beecher briefly returned it before embarrassment caused him to turn back to his own concerns.
Feeling a bit encouraged with his smile returned, if awkwardly, Cyril felt both increasingly lighthearted and evern more lonely than before. *Where is Ryan?* he kept thinking. He was bored, restless, and most of all, worried about what he would ever do without his brother.
Time marched forward but things didn't seem to ease up. Beecher was needled by his guilt, as if he needed anymore after Cathy Rockwell. And Cyril's dreams were getting worse and worse. He slept less and less and it showed. He was irritable and sensitive and in more need of attention.
Seeming to sense a mutual understanding between them, begun by that first glance, the two men would occasionally peek at each other, wanting to speak but not knowing how. Their only communication was through Ryan as they relayed messages to and from him, words unspoken would die on their lips when they'd come across each other. A quick shrug would dismiss the possibility of deeper conversation, and possibly, the beginning of a unique but geniune friendship. Neither was ready to trust enough to let another person in, even someone they sensed wasn't a threat.
Not long after Andy Schillinger's death, Beecher decide to unwind in one of the few ways you can in a place like OZ: by lifting weights. He lay prone on a weight bench pumping his daily dose of iron, trying to put unwelcome thoughts out of his mind--like how it felt to have the boy crying in his arms, the way he'd tried to forget Cathy Rockwell's wide-eyed stare plastered to the windshield of his car. Beecher kept trying to tell himself that Andy really wouldn't have changed. Leopard, spots, and all that. He'd been privy to his old man's poison for years, not to mention the poison he'd put in his veins and up his nose. Besides, the kid was dead and there was nothing he could do to bring him back. He might as well get over it, and forget about the part he'd played.
Cyril worked at the punching bag while his brother shouted encouragement from his side, but his mind wasn't on it. All he could think about was the snap...the snap...the man's neck snapping from the pressure of Cyril's hands pulling at it. Most days he could put the sound out of his mind, but for some reason, this time, he couldn't. It kept coming back and coming back and he wasn't sure how much longer he could take it. Being in this bad place was terrible enough, but he didn't want to be reminded of what he'd done to get there, or who made him do it. The anger welled up inside him again and he stopped punching. He glared at his brother for a brief second as he felt a mad but desperate urge to punch him too. Ryan looked at him questioningly, asked him what was wrong, and as soon as the feeling enveloped him, it slinked away leaving him with the now-familiar feeling of shame. He didn't ever want to be mad at his brother. It felt very wrong.
A new inmate, Marcus James, came in looking both excited and amused. "Hey O'Reilly, you know somebody's messin' around in your pod, man?"
"What? Who?"
"Don't know. Didn't seem his face. I just saw somebody messing around in your pod. Hope you don't have anything valuable you wanna hold onto."
"Son of a bitch!" O'Reilly exclaimed, his face turning purple with rage. He started to run out to see who would dare mess with anything of his, then remembered his brother. He didn't like to leave him alone for too long, but this was an emergency. If anything turned up missing he would be sorely pissed. "Hey...uh...Beecher, keep an eye on my brother, will you?" Before Beecher could even look up from what he was doing, much less answer yay or nay, Ryan was gone.
"Hey!" he yelled after him, "I'm not a babysitter!"
"I'm not a *baby*," Cyril said, looking rather hurt.
Beecher sighed. "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I know you're not, Cyril."
Cyril shrugged. "It's okay." He started punching at his bag again. Beecher watched him, feeling those words dancing on his tongue again, wanting to break free. *What the hell*, he thought..
"Hey Cyril?"
"Huh?"
"Could you--I mean, could I talk to you for a minute?"
Cyril stopped punching at the bag, but he didn't turn around. Anyone who was turned his way would see that his boyish face was a wrinkle of both curiousity and suspicion. "Uh..."
"Please. Just for a minute."
Still looking doubtful but wanting to trust, Cyril turned to him. Beecher motioned for him to sit down on another weight bench opposite him. 'Is...something wrong?"
Beecher gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "No, I just wanted to know how you weredoing."
"Fine...I guess."
"I mean, well, I've had my run-ins with Schillinger, more times than I like, really. I know what a shitstorm he can pull on you."
Cyril, looked down at the ground, shaking almost imperceptibly. He shrugged.
Beecher searched for words. He didn't know why talking to Cyril seemed so important all of a sudden, but it did. Maybe he just had to know that what he'd done would have some kind of good impact. If one innocent person was safe from Schillinger's grasp, then maybe it was worth it. Maybe. He had to make Cyril believe that he was safe. That they could get to Schillinger the way he'd gotten to them. He rubbed at his mouth, an old, old drinking habit. "You don't have to worry, you know. He's not going to hurt you ever again, I can promise you that. Your brother...he wouldnt let him. And neither would I. We're friends right? I mean. We don't have anything *against* each other."
"I guess."
Beecher chuckled a little. "Yeah, I know, we're not bosom buddies or anything. We hardly even speak. I just wanted you to know that I'm on your side. I don't know why I want you to know that but I... Oh never mind. Forget it."
All of a sudden Beecher was starting to feel like a tongue-tied jackass. He still wasn't sure how he should talk to Cyril. It shouldn't be this hard. What's wrong with me? he thought, When is this going to end? God, I miss my kids.
Cyril sat there, his hands folded primly in his lap and looked at the man who had turned away, flustered . He didn't quite know what this was all about, but hearing the word 'friend' made him feel better than he had in a long time. He couldn't deny that he needed one. Everyday he spent behind those dim walls seemed to get just a little bit darker than the day before. He felt so confused most of the time. He still wished that he didn't have to be in such a horrible place just for doing what his brother wanted him to do, bad or not, a crime or not. He shrugged and started to rise to go back to his pod. He felt much less like boxing than he did before. But on the way out, he held his hand tentatively out to Beecher. There was a connection there and they both felt it. Maybe they could build on it somehow, in some way.
"Friends?" Cyril's smile was as warm and inviting as a summer rain. It was a smile that wouldn't be denied.
Beecher looked into his earnest face, at his outstretched hand, back at his face. Cyril smiled a bit, and Beecher felt heartened. He took Cyril's hand, feeling his own face break into a smile just as radiant.
"You going back to your pod?" Cyril nodded and Beecher stood up. "I'm going that way myself. I'll walk with you." And on the way back to Emerald City, their friendship started to form.
Beecher felt bad. There was no use in denying it any longer. He felt really bad. He hated it that he felt that way, but he couldn't help it.
*Some revenge*, he thought, *I'm the one that ends up feeling like shit. Now how *can* that be right?*
He sighed wearily as he stared at the bunk that once belonged to young Andrew Schillinger, now deceased. Yes, everything had gone according to plan. He had hurt Schillinger in the worst way he could think of and he was glad of that, but it wasn't until the boy was dead that he'd realized how much also hurt himself too. It seemed like no matter what he did he couldn't manage to stop the hurting. He imagined what it would feel like if someone tried to hurt him by destroying his children. Hell, he didn't have far to go: Schillinger had already threatened as much when Beecher first arrived.
*My sons and your wife*, he'd purred, *My sons and your daughter*.
Even know it made Beecher shudder to think of those words, but at the time they sent him into a blind panic that was of yet, still unequaled in his mind. Even realizing what he'd gotten himself into with Schillinger wasn't as frightening. In spite of himself, and all his nemesis had done, Beecher began to wonder if even *Schillinger* deserved that kind of pain.
And the worst part, the part that wounded him the most, was that fact that he'd actually started to like the kid. Andrew was really not all bad. Sure, he was strung out, prone to his father's rascist rhetoric and hatemongering influence. But deep down, as Beecher spent more time with him and began to understand him a little better, he could see that young Andy Schillinger was not much more than a scared child, a pitiful boy, hiding behind a little smartass façade and beliefs that had been drummed into him since he was knee high.
It surprised Beecher more than he knew to see how much Andrew responded to a little positive reinforcement, how much he wanted to change, and how quickly he learned to trust, but it thrilled him to. It felt nice to have someone to look up to him again. Yes, it *was* part of the plan, but it was more than that. It made Beecher feel good, the way he did when Holly sat on his lap and he twirled his fingers through her blond curls or when he stood outside their house watching Gary ride his two-wheeler (complete with training wheels), or when his baby boy fell asleep in his arms and Beecher inhaled his sweet powdery infant-scent. He felt like he hadn't felt in a long time: like a father. A father who helped kill a boy. A boy who trusted him.
Beecher rubbed at his temple, vainly trying to rub the guilt a way. It had to be done, he kept telling himself. Schillinger had to pay for what he did to him. To all of them, especially...
He glanced out of his plexiglas pod at Cyril O'Reilly who was sitting in the pod he shared with his brother and endlessly bouncing a little red ball. He was very like a child himself, Beecher noticed, thanks to his accident which Beecher really didn't know that much about. Ryan hadn't seen fit to confide in him too much since they stopped getting high together. He only knew about the accident the way he knew about many things around OZ: through the prison grapevine. It was also how he heard about what happened between Schillinger and Cyril, even before he'd heard it from Ryan. It made Beecher angry to hear it--very angry. He barely knew Cyril, of course, mostly saw him trailing his brother through Em City like a wide-eyed puppy or propped in front of the T.V. during "Miss Sally's Schoolyard". But something about the man, grown and well-made muscled but impossibly open and innocent, made Beecher like him. He was one of the very few residents of Em City who *didn't* cause trouble. Unfortunately for him, he did seem to have trouble thrust upon him at times. Beecher knew the feeling well.
There weren't very many times since Cyril came to OZ that he didn't feel scared and confused (and more and more often lately, although he tried to fight it) angry. Angry that he had to leave the home he was familiar with and comfortable in to come to a place where he the sun didn't shine, nobody seemed happy, and where bad was good. He still didn't feel completely safe, eventhough being with his brother helped a lot. Not since the big man with the bald head tricked him into the broom closet by promising to take him to Ryan. He desperately wanted friends that he could trust and talk to, but he didn't know who he could trust. Ryan didn't trust, not anyone, and Ryan didn't ever seem to be afraid. How could he?
He hadn't known exactly how to react when he got there or why he had to be there in the first place. He recognized the fact, of course, that he had done a very bad thing, but he didn't do it because he wanted to hurt anyone. In fact, he could still remember the way his heart caught in his throat the moment he pulled the cord around Preston Nathan's neck and felt the delicate bones in his throat snap. The sound scared him, but he had to do it, because Ryan told him to, needed him to, and the only thing that scared him more than Vern Schillinger was disappointing his brother so much so that he didn't want him around anymore. He would do anything in the world for Ryan.
Still, that little ball of anger in the pit of his stomach squeezed at him, seeming to grow bigger day by day... and more painful. It hurt him to be mad at Ryan. It hurt him to remember what it felt like to kill someone who'd never done a single thing to hurt *him*.
His waking hours were plagued by thoughts of guilt and fear, but neither could he escape through sleep. His nights were haunted by unpleasantly frequent nightmares that usually had two themes: Schillinger and his two buddies in the closet telling him what he had to do to see his brother, and him strangling the life out of an innocent man. Except sometimes it was his own face he saw turning purple and bloated as cruel hands did their business.
*Why Ryan*, he thought, *why did you make me? Why did you make me do that?* He stopped bouncing the ball when it turned into a red blur, obscured by newly shed tears. Ryan wouldn't want him to cry about it; he'd get angry if he did. He wiped at his eyes and scanned the common area of Em City for his brother. Instead, he noticed a pair of liquid blue eyes staring at him from another pod. Finding no particular sense of threat from the gaze, he offered Beecher a tentative smile. Beecher briefly returned it before embarrassment caused him to turn back to his own concerns.
Feeling a bit encouraged with his smile returned, if awkwardly, Cyril felt both increasingly lighthearted and evern more lonely than before. *Where is Ryan?* he kept thinking. He was bored, restless, and most of all, worried about what he would ever do without his brother.
Time marched forward but things didn't seem to ease up. Beecher was needled by his guilt, as if he needed anymore after Cathy Rockwell. And Cyril's dreams were getting worse and worse. He slept less and less and it showed. He was irritable and sensitive and in more need of attention.
Seeming to sense a mutual understanding between them, begun by that first glance, the two men would occasionally peek at each other, wanting to speak but not knowing how. Their only communication was through Ryan as they relayed messages to and from him, words unspoken would die on their lips when they'd come across each other. A quick shrug would dismiss the possibility of deeper conversation, and possibly, the beginning of a unique but geniune friendship. Neither was ready to trust enough to let another person in, even someone they sensed wasn't a threat.
Not long after Andy Schillinger's death, Beecher decide to unwind in one of the few ways you can in a place like OZ: by lifting weights. He lay prone on a weight bench pumping his daily dose of iron, trying to put unwelcome thoughts out of his mind--like how it felt to have the boy crying in his arms, the way he'd tried to forget Cathy Rockwell's wide-eyed stare plastered to the windshield of his car. Beecher kept trying to tell himself that Andy really wouldn't have changed. Leopard, spots, and all that. He'd been privy to his old man's poison for years, not to mention the poison he'd put in his veins and up his nose. Besides, the kid was dead and there was nothing he could do to bring him back. He might as well get over it, and forget about the part he'd played.
Cyril worked at the punching bag while his brother shouted encouragement from his side, but his mind wasn't on it. All he could think about was the snap...the snap...the man's neck snapping from the pressure of Cyril's hands pulling at it. Most days he could put the sound out of his mind, but for some reason, this time, he couldn't. It kept coming back and coming back and he wasn't sure how much longer he could take it. Being in this bad place was terrible enough, but he didn't want to be reminded of what he'd done to get there, or who made him do it. The anger welled up inside him again and he stopped punching. He glared at his brother for a brief second as he felt a mad but desperate urge to punch him too. Ryan looked at him questioningly, asked him what was wrong, and as soon as the feeling enveloped him, it slinked away leaving him with the now-familiar feeling of shame. He didn't ever want to be mad at his brother. It felt very wrong.
A new inmate, Marcus James, came in looking both excited and amused. "Hey O'Reilly, you know somebody's messin' around in your pod, man?"
"What? Who?"
"Don't know. Didn't seem his face. I just saw somebody messing around in your pod. Hope you don't have anything valuable you wanna hold onto."
"Son of a bitch!" O'Reilly exclaimed, his face turning purple with rage. He started to run out to see who would dare mess with anything of his, then remembered his brother. He didn't like to leave him alone for too long, but this was an emergency. If anything turned up missing he would be sorely pissed. "Hey...uh...Beecher, keep an eye on my brother, will you?" Before Beecher could even look up from what he was doing, much less answer yay or nay, Ryan was gone.
"Hey!" he yelled after him, "I'm not a babysitter!"
"I'm not a *baby*," Cyril said, looking rather hurt.
Beecher sighed. "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I know you're not, Cyril."
Cyril shrugged. "It's okay." He started punching at his bag again. Beecher watched him, feeling those words dancing on his tongue again, wanting to break free. *What the hell*, he thought..
"Hey Cyril?"
"Huh?"
"Could you--I mean, could I talk to you for a minute?"
Cyril stopped punching at the bag, but he didn't turn around. Anyone who was turned his way would see that his boyish face was a wrinkle of both curiousity and suspicion. "Uh..."
"Please. Just for a minute."
Still looking doubtful but wanting to trust, Cyril turned to him. Beecher motioned for him to sit down on another weight bench opposite him. 'Is...something wrong?"
Beecher gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "No, I just wanted to know how you weredoing."
"Fine...I guess."
"I mean, well, I've had my run-ins with Schillinger, more times than I like, really. I know what a shitstorm he can pull on you."
Cyril, looked down at the ground, shaking almost imperceptibly. He shrugged.
Beecher searched for words. He didn't know why talking to Cyril seemed so important all of a sudden, but it did. Maybe he just had to know that what he'd done would have some kind of good impact. If one innocent person was safe from Schillinger's grasp, then maybe it was worth it. Maybe. He had to make Cyril believe that he was safe. That they could get to Schillinger the way he'd gotten to them. He rubbed at his mouth, an old, old drinking habit. "You don't have to worry, you know. He's not going to hurt you ever again, I can promise you that. Your brother...he wouldnt let him. And neither would I. We're friends right? I mean. We don't have anything *against* each other."
"I guess."
Beecher chuckled a little. "Yeah, I know, we're not bosom buddies or anything. We hardly even speak. I just wanted you to know that I'm on your side. I don't know why I want you to know that but I... Oh never mind. Forget it."
All of a sudden Beecher was starting to feel like a tongue-tied jackass. He still wasn't sure how he should talk to Cyril. It shouldn't be this hard. What's wrong with me? he thought, When is this going to end? God, I miss my kids.
Cyril sat there, his hands folded primly in his lap and looked at the man who had turned away, flustered . He didn't quite know what this was all about, but hearing the word 'friend' made him feel better than he had in a long time. He couldn't deny that he needed one. Everyday he spent behind those dim walls seemed to get just a little bit darker than the day before. He felt so confused most of the time. He still wished that he didn't have to be in such a horrible place just for doing what his brother wanted him to do, bad or not, a crime or not. He shrugged and started to rise to go back to his pod. He felt much less like boxing than he did before. But on the way out, he held his hand tentatively out to Beecher. There was a connection there and they both felt it. Maybe they could build on it somehow, in some way.
"Friends?" Cyril's smile was as warm and inviting as a summer rain. It was a smile that wouldn't be denied.
Beecher looked into his earnest face, at his outstretched hand, back at his face. Cyril smiled a bit, and Beecher felt heartened. He took Cyril's hand, feeling his own face break into a smile just as radiant.
"You going back to your pod?" Cyril nodded and Beecher stood up. "I'm going that way myself. I'll walk with you." And on the way back to Emerald City, their friendship started to form.