Usual disclaimers apply. I own nothing. Schwartz & Co. still own everything.
Author's note: Thank you, whomever nominated this little diversion for a "Citrus Award."
Shelbecat, thanks for the link. I didn't know how much good stuff is out there and I can't wait to read it all.
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Trey's sitting, fingers entwined, hands resting on the top of the kitchen table. His ankles are wrapped around outside of the metal legs of the chair, the toes of his sneakers resting on the inside of the rubber stoppers that cap the end of each chair's leg. His head is bowed and he's staring down at his thumbs. John is standing on the opposite side of the table, facing his son, leaning towards him as he holds onto the table with both hands, palms down, wrists outward. He's resting most of his upper body's weight on his arms. His biceps are taut and thick blue cords of vein stand out in stark relief against the paleness of his skin. A vein protrudes from in his left temple as well—its background decidedly red.
"…seriously! What the fuck were you thinking? —or do you even think anymore before you pull this shit?"
"I'm sorry, Dad." Trey mumbles, not looking up from his hands.
"Sorry doesn't cut it anymore. You're always sorry."
"I won't do it again."
"Damn straight you won't—of course you won't. You'll do something worse. You'll burn down the house or steal a car. Goddamn it, Trey! Can't you go one week—one fucking week without getting into trouble?"
Ryan rushes into the kitchen. He's obviously flustered, his cheeks reddened from the warmth of the house after the coolness of the night outside and from the exertion of carrying the provisions from the bus stop to the house at a dead run. He'd raced to the house after spotting his father's pickup in the drive from the bus window. He'd ignored his mother's pleas to slow down. To wait. He'd sprinted home and dumped everything by the front door as he hastened toward the sound of his father's voice—angry and raised. He notes with relief that he's not too late. His father's coming down hard on Trey, but his belt is still securely fastened around his waist. He hasn't hit Trey yet.
John turns his head in response to the slamming of the front door, the hastily dropped effects, the rapid light footsteps. He looks over his left shoulder without straightening and sees his younger son standing in the kitchen doorway—he dismisses him automatically.
"Go to your room, Ryan."
Trey looks directly at Ryan for the first time all evening. As their eyes lock, he shakes his head almost imperceptibly and mouths the word "don't."
It takes a few seconds and a lot of effort for Ryan to break his brother's gaze and meet his father's eye. "No, Dad. He…"
"Shut up." Trey tries to cut him off, mid-sentence.
"He didn't take them—the cigarettes—Trey didn't—"
"I already told him what happened, Ry. It's too late."
Ryan looks back to his brother. "I don't care. It's not too late. You can take it back—just—just take it back." Ryan's voice quivers a little in the delivery and the muscles in his cheek visibly bunch as he clenches his molars tight. He releases his jaw and balls up his fists with a new found determination.
"You don't have to do this, Trey." His tone is conspiratorial—it's as if the two boys are alone in the room.
John observes the interchange between the boys with curiosity—and more than a little annoyance. It had been going so easily. Too easily. Trey had met him before he'd gotten three feet into the house. He'd offered a full confession before John had time to take off his coat. He'd been openly repentant, quick to apologize and passive in listening to his father's lecture.
Of course, all of that probably should have tipped John off to the possibility that something wasn't quite right. Trey was rarely, if ever, submissive. It's what made it always such a royal pain in the ass to discipline him. He always has something to say. Some lame-assed excuse—some feeble justification—but, not tonight. Tonight he had been overly compliant. It was almost like he was rushing through it. Like he was impatient to reach the end-game. Something's going on and it's clear to John that he doesn't have the full story.
Dawn arrives, a full minute behind her younger son. She's also flustered. She's still carrying the box of food, which she dumps, unceremoniously, on the counter before starting to put away its contents. She purposefully ignores the scene before her. The manifest aggression displayed in her husband's carriage—the way her older son looks contrite, his head still lowered, even as he continues to shoot a pointed look at his brother—her younger son's internal struggle, the conflicting emotions dancing across his face, equal parts determination and trepidation.
"Why'd you run off like that, Ryan?" Her voice is plaintive. High-pitched. Nervous. Whiny. When Ryan doesn't answer, she pretends not to notice. She concentrates on the task at hand—removing the dry goods from the box and putting them into the cabinets—all the while sneaking brief glances at her family. "Make sure you pick up the stuff you dumped in the living room." She gestures towards the other room. Just to be doing something—just to be saying something. "You can't just leave everything in a heap like that." Her voice seems amplified, shrill even, in the quiet room. She recognizes the stillness and the tension between the kitchen's other occupants for the powder-keg that it is.
"Is somebody going to tell me what the fuck is going on?" John lofts the question upwards—a free-for-all. Trey's the first to react. The first to answer.
"I already told you, Dad—I took them."
"No he didn't. I did."
"Shut up, Ryan!" Trey's voice is tinged with just a hint of desperation. "Just drop it—okay? Nobody thinks you took the fucking cigarettes."
John lifts his right hand from the table long enough to backhand Trey sharply across the mouth. Trey wasn't expecting it, but as he lurches backwards from the blow, he's able to grab onto the table. He catches himself before his chair topples, plants his feet firmly on the kitchen's linoleum, his hands still gripping the sides of the table.
"Watch your fucking language."
"Sorry." Trey's response is automatic. He meets his father's eye for the briefest of instances, before dipping his head again, hunching forward, splaying his hands on top of the table, pretending to study them—then looking back to Ryan out of the corner of his eye.
John's losing patience. He pushes back from the table, straightens and turns to face his younger son. He takes a step toward the little boy, who noticeably flinches, ducks his head, avoids eye contact and crosses his arms protectively across his chest.
"You took the cigarettes?"
"Yes, sir." And though the statement is aimed at the floor—though it's barely audible—it's still somehow firm.
"What were you going to do with them?"
"I—I dunno." The boy lifts a shoulder. He leaves it there pathetically.
John swipes at his eyes and then rubs his palm along his nose, his mouth, down across his chin. He's clearly irritated with Ryan's interruption and his half-hearted response. He doesn't believe him for a second. "Go to your room. This doesn't concern you." He turns back towards the table and to his older son. This one's not meeting his eye, either. This one's still shooting daggers at the other.
"Let's go, Trey." John fumbles at his buckle as Trey stands. He has his belt halfway out as he puts a heavy hand on Trey's shoulder and starts pushing him out of the kitchen. When Ryan doesn't move from the doorway, he puts his hand on his younger son's chest and shoves him aside. He pulls the rest of his belt free as he propels Trey through the doorway and into the other room. Ryan stumbles backward, takes a second to regain his balance, and quickly follows.
"Don't hit him. He didn't do it."
"Ryan—so help me—if you don't go to your fucking room right now . . ."
"Ask him where they were." Ryan's voice has now assumed the breathless quality it so often does when agitated. When he's nervous, angry, or both. It's winded. It sounds as if he's putting forth a tremendous physical effort just to speak—as if the very words he's utters are fighting to stay within him—struggling to remain unsaid.
"What're you talking about?"
"Ask him where you found them—the cigarettes—just ask him."
As Trey turns to Ryan, he tries to wrest away from his father's grasp. John releases Trey's shoulder, grabs his upper arm, exerts more pressure, doesn't let go.
"They were in your drawer, Ryan—I rolled them up in a t-shirt and I stashed them in your drawer—are you happy now?" Trey's scared. Ryan came home too soon and now he's ruining everything. He's messing everything up. Just like he knew he would.
"Can we just get this over with?" He tries to sound hopeful and resigned. He supposes he succeeds, since his father pulls at his arm and they continue their course. Dawn has finished putting away the food from the church. She exits the kitchen, approaches Ryan from behind, crosses her arms in front of her son's chest and pulls his tense little body to her—she squeezes him tight.
"Honey, let it be." She whispers.
But Ryan's determined. He reaches up, pulls his mother's arms from him, twists out of her grasp and takes another step in his brother's direction.
"Which shirt?"
He knows he's got about three seconds—he's got about three paces—before his dad and brother disappear into the other room. He knows that if he can't stop them before his parents' door is closed, he will have lost.
"Ask him which shirt." This gets his father's attention, because he stops, turns, faces his younger son.
"What?"
"Ask him which shirt, Dad. He doesn't even know."
"I already said I took them, Ryan, why the fuck does it matter?!"
"I do—I know—Trey doesn't."
"Ryan, stop it. Just shut the fuck up!"
John lets go of Trey long enough to backhand him again. "I said to watch your mouth."
"Sorry."
"Go on, ask him, Dad." Ryan is unrelenting. John looks down at Trey and cocks his head. Curiosity has the better of him now. He needs Trey's answer. So, he waits. His son looks momentarily confused, but then recovers enough to look pissed off.
"A white one. A black one. How the hell do I know? I wasn't paying attention to the stupid shirt."
Ryan's eyes are lasers—they're locked in on his brother's, boring into him as he speaks. "I put the cigarettes in the pocket of my blue shirt—rolled the shirt around them—shoved it in the back left corner of the drawer and—and I put a bunch of other clothes on top. Dad found them there because that's where I put them. You don't know, Trey—you don't know because you didn't do it."
"Ryan." Trey tries again, but his plea sounds feeble. Even he realizes that it's too late.
"I can take care of myself." Again, it's like Ryan and Trey are the room's only inhabitants. Ryan is speaking to Trey and to Trey alone. And—and Trey sees it. He sees that there's something in Ryan's eyes. There's something behind the overt fear and anxiety that are so readily transparent. There's a resolve there—under the surface—that he hasn't seen before. He instantly knows that Ryan has to do this and he knows that he has to let him.
Ryan sees the comprehension wash over his brother. He sees it in his brother's expression, in the way Trey's body seems to relax—his very demeanor admitting defeat. And once Ryan knows that his brother understands, that his brother will let him do this, he breaks contact. He turns away and looks up at his father. He's admittedly apprehensive—admittedly afraid. But, he knows what he has to do. He's chosen this for himself. He chose it back when he took the stupid smokes. Because if he was stupid enough to take the cigarettes—if he was stupid enough to get busted—well, then he's old enough to take what he's got coming to him.
John hands Ryan the belt. Tells him to wait in the bedroom. Ryan's hands shake as he takes possession of the instrument that will inflict the damage. He can't help but register its substantial heft and has a hard time swallowing around the sizable knot that's taken up residence in his throat. But, even as his fear escalates, he looks pointedly at his brother. He gives his head a slight nod. He reassures Trey that this is what he wants—this is what he needs to do. Ryan turns and walks determinedly into his parents' room.
John regards the interaction between his children. Several emotions are going through him at once. Anger—surprise—disappointment—even a little pride. He addresses Trey. "I'm letting you off this time, but lie to me again and see where that gets you."
"Yes, sir." The response is mumbled. All bravado is gone. Trey's visibly spent. He's wiped out—there's no fight left in him.
"Get out of here and don't let me see you again till morning."
"Yes, sir."
Trey shuffles off to the bedroom he shares with his brother. He shuts the door, puts his back to the wall between his room and his parents' room and lets himself slide to a sitting position on the floor. He's exhausted. He doesn't want to hear what transpires in the room next door. But he has to know what's going on. He has to know if he needs to intercede. So he hugs his legs close to himself. He locks his left wrist with the palm and fingers of his right hand. He puts forehead on his knees. He closes his eyes. He listens. And he waits.