Author's note: A sincere thank you to all who have reviewed and all who continue to do so. You are all way too kind! The usual disclaimers apply: Schwartz & Co. own everything. I own nothing. Oh, and according to the instruction, I pulled the story and reposted when my latest version never appeared after posting. Now all my reviews have been wiped out. Four chapters and not a single review. Sad! So sad.
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John's tired. He's just come off shift and he wants to be home. Which is not exactly true. Since he'd rather be working another shift. Or longer hours at the one he's on. He'd rather be coming home bone-weary and utterly exhausted to a dark house and a sleeping family. But, that's not an option. Not since the plant's been making the cutbacks and the layoffs. Not when he's lucky to pick up any shifts at all.
"This is me." Gordon says, turning to head down the aisle to his car. "You sure you don't want to grab a beer?"
"Not this time." John turns down the offer. Ordinarily he'd indulge. Or at least he'd be tempted. But he's got to watch the money. And he's got to go home and discipline Trey.
John flicks his wrist, giving Gordon a three fingered half-salute and continues to where he's parked the pickup. He digs the keys out of the right front pocket of his jeans, climbs into the cab and says a silent prayer as he holds down the clutch, turns the ignition and stomps on the gas. The engine coughs, sputters and dies. As it does the second and third time he turns the key. He pounds the steering wheel in frustration, runs his fingers through his hair and attempts to rub some of the tension out of the back of his neck. He waits several seconds to avoid flooding the engine and he tries again. A few more attempts and the old truck finally rumbles to a start. John's relieved, since knows it's only a matter of time before the pickup kicks the bucket for good. There's a problem with the starter, but it's not worth the money to repair, since the head gasket is cracked. He's welded the crack shut, but it's not a permanent fix. It's not even a particularly effective fix, since the truck still overheats even on the short drive to and from the plant. John knows he'll have to resort to taking the bus when the pickup finally dies. He can't afford a new head gasket. He can't afford a new car. Hell, he can't afford a fucking packet of Chicklets right now.
As he lights a cigarette and cracks open the window, he wonders how everything got so fucked up. Though, if he's honest with himself, the real question is how he managed to keep everything so surprisingly in control for so much longer than expected. Than anyone would have expected for him—and for Dawn. He's known Dawn practically all of his life. They'd gone to grade school together. They ran with the same crowd for most of high school, but didn't get together until the end of 11th grade. They finally hooked up when Dawn threw herself at him one night after they all got drunk in Joey Thatcher's basement. Dawn and John married right out of high school and Trey was born seven months later. A "party favor" Dawn used to call him, convinced that he was conceived the night of their senior prom. Though how she could determine that he was conceived that night and not two nights earlier or the night after was beyond John. He didn't argue the point. He just married her.
No one thought they'd make it. Not her family. Not his. But they were making it. They were doing pretty okay. Or they had been doing pretty okay. Until now. Until the last year or so. Well enough that Ryan had even been planned. Because they didn't want Trey to be an only child, and, with two steady jobs and two regular paychecks, they thought they could handle the responsibility of having another. They'd even been hoping for a second boy, so Ryan's birth had been welcomed and celebrated. So much different than when Trey was born. When Trey was born, they'd been scared to death. They were just couple of kids who didn't have a clue. At nineteen, they couldn't quite believe that the hospital was actually sending them home with a human to raise. Without a manual. Without instructions. Without any direction.
Truth be told, they weren't much better prepared when they took Ryan home. Truth be told, they weren't any better prepared, but at least they'd seen Trey through his first few years and they hadn't managed to kill him. At the time, he'd supposed they'd even done an okay job. They liked Trey. Others seemed to like him. He was a nice kid, a sweet kid, if a little mouthy. The mouthiness was a trait they each had openly attributed to the other, but quietly claimed as his or her own. Since they'd been secretly proud when Trey'd talked so early, talked so often, and been so pushy and opinionated from the get-go.
Ryan's different. He's always been different. He's always been quiet. Even when he was a baby, he just kind of sat and absorbed everything going on around him, his eyes shifting between John and Dawn and Trey. Taking in everything, even as he was mostly ignored. Well, not ignored, exactly. But his milestones not noticed, not photographed, not recorded in the minute detail Dawn had assumed with Trey. Trey was always so high-maintenance, so hands on, so demanding of Dawn's time and attention. So unlike Ryan. Because as long as there was something to watch, Ryan was fine. He was more than fine. He was content. He was an easy baby.
He was so easy that there were times John and Dawn almost forgot Ryan was there. Almost forgot he was in the room with them. They'd step over him to continue a task, to bring something to Trey, to cross the room. And Ryan would let out a howl of frustration. It was only then that they'd realized that the kid was making his way to them. That he'd finally gotten there, finally reached his destination, only to be stepped over like an obstacle in his parents' way as they hurried to attend to other matters. More pressing matters. More demanding matters. It was in those moments that it was patently clear that the kid had the infamous Atwood temper, as quiet and reserved as he seemed. The baby had inherited the hair-trigger temper. The hair-trigger temper sits there in Ryan, just under the surface. Just like it does with John and just like it does with Trey.
John knows that Ryan adores Trey. He always has, even though Trey's always been rough with his little brother. Even though as soon as Ryan could crawl and stand, Trey was shoving him over, tackling him, sitting on him. And Ryan just took it for the most part. Smiled even. Laughed. John and Dawn had to resort to tickling Ryan when he was an infant to get him to laugh, but Trey could make him giggle and squeal just by talking to him. By playing with him. Those had always been the best moments for John. Early in the morning, lying in bed. Hearing Trey get up and cross over to his brother's crib. Waking the baby. Making the baby laugh. Dawn and he had groaned about the earliness of the hour and the annoyance of Trey consciously waking the baby when all they wanted was a few more minutes of sleep, but they'd both readily admitted to enjoying the interaction between the boys. The interaction that had nothing to do with John and Dawn. The special way that brothers bond.
John takes a deep drag on the cigarette and expels the smoke only when he can hold it no longer. Because he doesn't want to be thinking about how good Trey had been with the baby. Not now. Not now, because he's on his way to kick Trey's ass. Again. And he doesn't relish it, because he's been disciplining Trey a lot lately. Trey's been in almost continuous trouble for a long time now—the poor grades, the attitude, the backtalk and the constant bitching about the baseball, even though they'd told him that the money just wasn't there. Trey'd whined and moaned and complained for days. He'd been a completely miserable little prick, until John finally took the belt to him. And John finally took the belt to Trey because reasoning with him didn't work and telling him to shut the fuck up about it didn't work. The belt worked. Trey'd finally stopped asking about baseball once John'd tanned his backside with the broad leather strap.
John takes no pleasure in disciplining the boys. He'd rather be out with Gordo and the rest of the guys bending his elbow at The Grog. He'd rather be bringing home pizza and videos and talking about Disneyland in the spring. Hell, he'd rather be working another shift. The last thing he wants to do is go home and kick Trey's ass. But he has to. Because Trey took John's smokes and he hid them in his little brother's drawer. And, to make matters worse, when John asked him about the pack that was missing from the carton, the little punk denied it. He'd met John's eye. He'd returned John's accusation with a defiant look and he'd lied. He'd flat out lied. And John can't let him get away with that. So John has to go home and deal with Trey.
John certainly can't leave it to Dawn to discipline Trey. Dawn is inconsistent in her punishment. She is constantly threatening the boys, asking them if they want to go to their room. If they want to go to bed without dinner. Like she needs an answer. Like the topic is up for debate. Empty threats, mostly. And the boys know it. Oh, Dawn will snap and get physical with them when she's really frustrated, really aggravated, really angry. But mostly she threatens the boys—and mostly, they ignore her. John knows that high-spirited boys like Trey cannot be disciplined in that manner. John is as certain about this as he is about anything else in his life. Because John had been a high-spirited boy once. And he'd been on the receiving end of his own father's belt more times than he can count. The receiving end of his own father's fists, his own father's boots. And it had made a difference. It had made him think twice before acting out, before disrespecting his parents, before getting into trouble. Even though he still did.
It's because John remembers what it's like to wait in fear of an anticipated beating that he knows that Trey is at home right now dreading his return. And he is not entirely comfortable with the thought that his older son is probably conjuring up all manner of his own bloody demise—anything that would prevent John from coming home tonight. He is not entirely comfortable with the thought that his own sons fear him. Even though they do. But, since the punishment cannot be avoided, John reassures himself that at least he has Trey's attention—and he needs to have Trey's attention right now. Trey is at a time in his life when the line has to be drawn. The fist has to come down. Literally. Or they will lose him. Trey's already acting out—he's already cocky, mouthy and defiant. He's already stealing and lying. And, he can already look his father right in the eye, meet his father's gaze dead-on and lie about the stealing.
Once they lose control of Trey, John knows that Ryan won't be far behind. Oh, Ryan's a good kid. A smart kid. But, he's young, he's easily influenced by his brother and he's got that patented Atwood hair-trigger temper. The temper that has a way of overriding better judgment. A trait Ryan displayed a few weeks back when he challenged John during an argument John was having with Dawn. An argument over money, of course, since all their arguments seemed to be over money these days. Dawn had been the first to get physical. She had slapped John when he accused her of being frivolous with her spending. When he had snapped in frustration over her continuing failure to find a job. When he had called her a hateful name. And when Dawn hit him, John had reacted instinctively, his judgment clouded, as it so often was these days, by the alcohol he'd consumed.
Dawn was bleeding from her mouth and from her nose when Ryan came into his parents' bedroom and confronted John. When Ryan told John to leave his mother alone. And if John hadn't been so enraged, so drunk, so out of control, he would have known how afraid Ryan was. He would have seen it by the flush in Ryan's cheeks and by the way his body visibly shook. He would have heard it in the way Ryan's voice came out in those short little puffs—winded as if fighting his lungs for the very breath to speak—when he demanded that John stop. That John stop hurting his mother. If John hadn't been so livid, so drunk, so beyond reason, he would have seen how small Ryan was when he placed himself between his parents. He would have seen how much courage it took the little boy to grab his father's arm in an attempt to physically stop him from beating his mother. Instead, Ryan had managed to redirect the brunt of his father's anger to himself. Something Trey often did. Something that Ryan had never done before that night. Because Ryan had never had to. And he wouldn't have had to on that particular night if Trey'd been home. But Trey had not been home.
John kicked the shit out of Ryan that night. He'd started punching and he hadn't stopped until the little boy was a bloody, broken mess. And he'd only stopped then because the pain emanating from the knuckle on his right index finger finally penetrated his alcoholic fog. He'd only stopped when the throbbing from his closed fist let him know that he'd gone too far. That he'd damaged the little boy much more than he had intended. Not that he intended to hurt Ryan at all. It just happened. Because John was drunk and he had reacted without thinking. Something he's doing more and more.
John shakes his head, concentrates on the road ahead and stops thinking about the mistake he made a few weeks back. Because he won't lose control tonight. Tonight he will be disciplining Trey with calculation and deliberate intention. Or he will be disciplining Ryan with calculation and deliberate intention, if Trey hasn't come clean. Not that he entertains that thought seriously. Because everyone knows that Trey took the smokes and that Trey is not about to let his little brother be punished for something Trey did. Hell, Trey wouldn't let Ryan take a belt to the backside for something Ryan did. John knows this because John knows in his heart that Trey is still a good kid. That Trey is still fiercely protective of his little brother and that Trey would do anything to make sure that Ryan is unharmed. Despite his recent fuck-ups, his recent attitude, his recent foray into petty theft, Trey is still a good kid. And John feels badly that he's in route to kicking Trey's ass, even though it's absolutely necessary.
And, while it does nothing to make him feel better about the night ahead, John decides that he'll throw a ball with Trey this weekend. He'll take his son out to the St. Pius fields or to the park and the two of them will have a catch like they used to. Like they haven't in a very long time. Because he knows how much Trey wants to play baseball—and because his heart aches that he can't even give Trey that simple pleasure. But, he can't. The money just isn't there.