Thanks for all the great reviews! Seriously, every time I hit the button to submit a new chapter, I'm overwhelmed by positively Cohenian anxiety.
Oh, and a mention in a headnote to Xerus's awesome, entirely angst-free Notacareintheworldlifeisallmarshmallowcloudsintheshapeoffluffybunniesandgrapelollipopssincethey'resototallythebestflavor!Ryan! fic. Wow, life just can't get any better.
Still own nothing.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...
Dawn's lying on the couch, her legs tucked behind as she leans back against her husband. He's got his left hand draped loosely across her chest and his right hand gently strokes her hair when it's not manipulating the cigarette to and from his lips. There are matching glass tumblers filled with bourbon and ice on the coffee table in front of them and as Dawn stretches and reaches for her glass, she notes that the table has seen better days. It had been a gift from John's Aunt Kate when they married 12 years before and it's definitely showing its age. The unfinished soft pine surface bears the dents, the scars and the other mementos of a long and difficult life lived amongst the chaos that defines the Atwood home.
There's the chip on the far corner—that's where Ryan knocked out his tooth when he tripped over his brother's baseball mitt a few years before. They were lucky that it was a baby tooth—no permanent damage done. But, John must have told Trey to pick up that damn glove half a dozen times before Ryan fell—so, Ryan wasn't the only one with a bloody mouth by the time that night ended.
There are the three deep scratches that are a souvenir from her brother's long-dead Rottweiler. She hated that fucking dog. The tracks he had left on the top of her table had been a lot lighter, originally—until an errant tennis ball the boys were throwing between them knocked over their father's coffee cup, splashing the table—and him—with the scalding black liquid it contained.
And, there—front and center—is the "JRA" that Trey had carved into the wood with a table knife in inch-high letters out of sheer boredom on a rainy summer afternoon. She's surprised he didn't add the "III" that provided his nickname. But, he may have just not been finished yet when he was caught still dragging the knife through the "A" and roughly hauled off to his parents' bedroom and a beating with his dad's belt. She remembers how loud the knife sounded as it clanged to the floor when John twisted Trey's hand around to the middle of his back. How scared Dawn was that the fragile little wrist would snap.
She sighs and lifts the drink to her lips. Listens to the soft melodic clink of ice against glass as she takes a small sip—holds it for a second in her mouth—then lets the soothing liquid slowly slide down her throat, warming her entire body from within. She'll go to him later. To Ryan. At bedtime. She'll tuck him in, kiss his tears away and let him know that she loves him.
"She look upset to you?" Trey whispers angrily to his brother from where they're standing, at the edge of the lawn, peering around the side of the house and into the living room. Where their parents are drinking, smoking and watching "Roseanne"—their bodies entwined, their father's hand tenderly brushing their mother's hair.
"I get it." Ryan whispers back. And he does—he did—even before Trey decided to show him this. Trey's the first to break away from the cozy domestic charade playing out before their eyes. He walks off minutes before Ryan is able to do the same.
Trey waits for his little brother behind the shed. It's no question that Ryan will know exactly where to find him. It's where they always go when they want to escape the house—or its other occupants. It's where the boys have played endless rounds of "spit" and "gin" and countless other card games, while waiting for the powder keg inside to diffuse. It's where Trey giddily narrated the minute details of every last match of his unprecedented run as the six week reigning "king" at four-square. It's where he taught Ryan how to punch correctly—to lock his wrist and lead with the knuckles of the index and middle finger—after Ryan kept getting his ass kicked on the playground and Trey got tired of beating up the smaller kids. It's where the brothers shared their first stolen beer. Their first stolen cigarette.
There's a little over a foot between the shed and the chain-link fence surrounding their neighbor's backyard. It's just narrow enough that John hasn't thought to look for them there in his sometimes search for the boys. Yet, it's big enough for both of their small forms to fit, easily—comfortably. Trey hears the clang of metal against metal as the chain that attaches their neighbor's pit bull to the stake in the yard rattles against her collar. She comes out of her doghouse as Trey settles, his back against the shed and waits for his brother. He waves and offers a whispered, "Hey, Peaches, it's just me."
Peaches doesn't bark. She's used to being in this boy's presence. She walks towards him as far as the tether will allow, then turns three tight circles and lies down, her brown, doleful eyes remaining on the boy as she runs a slobbery tongue across her nose and her chops and starts biting at the hot spot on her right front leg.
Trey hears his brother's soft footsteps coming across the lawn before he sees him. Ryan's so slight, he doesn't even have to turn sideways to come through the opening. The lighting out here is similar to what it had been in their bedroom, as their neighbor's spotlight is shining on the yard, illuminating the dead yellow patch of grass that surrounds Peaches' doghouse and defines the circumference of her tether.
"You really took cigarettes?" Ryan asks, because he's still amazed at his brother's audacity in light of the evening's events—and because he doesn't want to talk further about the scene they'd both just witnessed.
"They're Mom's. She left them in the bathroom. She won't even have a clue." Ryan's still shaking his head, but takes the cigarette Trey offers. He remains standing, not wanting to sit on the hard concrete that surrounds the shed. Leans a shoulder against the shed's back wall. Waits for his brother to offer him a light—and shakes his head when he does.
"I wanna light it." Trey shrugs, flicks the lit match away from him—where it extinguishes itself in a little wisp of smoke—and hands Ryan the matchbook. Ryan goes through three matches before he can sustain a flame long enough behind his cupped hand to light his cigarette. He barely coughs when he inhales. So different from the first time, when he'd been overly confident, taken way too much into his lungs, coughed, choked and almost threw up. He was getting better at this.
The boys smoke in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Trey asks the million dollar question—the one Ryan's been waiting to hear from his brother all evening. The one Ryan has no idea how to answer.
"What were you going to do with them, anyway?"
"What—the cigarettes?"
"No, the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, you dumbass."
"I dunno."
"Bull! I do things 'cause of 'I dunno'—you don't."
Ryan shifts uncomfortably. Looks at his brother out of the corner of his eye. "They were for you."
"For me?"
"Yeah—like for your birthday."
"You stole cigarettes—stole cigarettes from Dad—to give me for my birthday? Great plan, Einstein." Trey expertly flicks the ash off the end of the cigarette and takes another big drag.
Ryan waits a few seconds before trying to explain. "I didn't exactly steal them—I uh—I kind of paid for them."
"Keep talking." Trey urges when Ryan doesn't offer more.
Ryan shrugs—takes a small pull at his cigarette—removes it from his lips—lets his hand drop—watches as the red tip turns to gray. "Dad took my money."
"What money?"
"Just some money. I had saved it—for your birthday—I was trying to—I was going to get enough for you to play baseball this year."
"Where'd you get money?"
"I dunno—I mean—I haven't spent Grandma's Christmas money, yet—or I hadn't—well, not before Dad took it."
"Hate to tell ya', but that's not gonna pay for a season of baseball, Ry."
"I know that—I was going to try to work something out—with Fr. Kevin—you know?"
"Like what?"
"Like what Mom does with the electric company."
"You mean a payment plan?"
"Yeah—like that."
Trey laughs at the absurdity of it all. "So—what? You were going to put $10 down and pay it off over the next four years?"
Ryan's still looking at Trey out of the corner of his eye. He inhales a little more smoke and mimics how his brother flicked the ash. He lets his brother laugh for a few seconds before quietly offering, "I had 30."
"Thirty dollars?"
"No, 30 chickens, dumbass."
"How'd you get $30? Grandma only sent ten."
Ryan hesitates again, but he can't figure out how not to tell. "I—I sold my skateboard."
"For $20? Who's the sucker?"
"Ten. Spud Walker bought it."
"And the other ten?"
Ryan shifts, leans more heavily on his shoulder and swings his eyes from his brother to Peaches. She growls softly when their eyes make contact—and when the little boy doesn't defer. But she's not entirely serious. She's used to this one, too—so she doesn't even raise her head, much less her hackles.
"Spill, Ryan."
"Promise you won't get mad."
"No."
"C'mon, Trey—please?"
"No way—I'm not gonna promise anything. What'd you do?"
Trey wouldn't have thought it possible for Ryan to speak any softer and to still be audible. But his voice drops just a fraction lower as he confesses, "I sold my baseball mitt to Billy Brewer."
"Jesus, Ryan!" Trey's response is more a bark than a whisper. It comes out louder than he expected and for one millisecond, he's afraid it was too loud—until he remembers that the TV is on and the program's laugh-track is loud.
Ryan turns his eyes back to his brother. He pulls himself to an upright position—faces his brother. "Don't get mad, Trey. I don't hardly ever use it—baseball's your thing—I won't even miss it."
Trey puffs his cheeks out, clearly annoyed that his brother's been selling off his stuff and for the first time, it briefly occurs to him that he may have been complaining just a little too much in the last few weeks about not being able to play.
"Where were you going to get the rest? Even with a payment plan you need some way to make money. You're like—eight." He wants to see exactly how thoroughly his brother's thought this thing through. Exactly what lengths his little brother would go to so that he could play a season of ball.
Ryan shrugs—he leans his shoulder back against the shed—resumes looking at Trey out of the corner of his eye—and takes another short drag on the cigarette before answering. "Billy says he makes up to $10 on a funeral—and even more at weddings—especially when the really ugly people get married."
"You were going to be an alter boy?"
"I dunno—I was going to ask Fr. Kevin."
"So, instead, you stole a pack of Dad's smokes."
"I didn't steal 'em—I paid $30 for the stupid things."
"Well, now what? You still going to be an alter boy?"
"I dunno—maybe—getting money would be nice—but not if Dad's just gonna to take it all." He looks over at Peaches when she softly harrumphs. Watches as she stands, turns a few more circles and settles down again—resumes chewing on the now red and bloody sore on her leg. He briefly considers telling Trey about Fr. Kevin's offer to waive the fee, but decides against it. Their mother will want to tell him and Ryan doesn't want to ruin the surprise. Despite his mixed emotions for his mother right now, it's her news to share—and he knows how much his mother wants to make Trey smile. Because she hasn't—not in a very long time.
Ryan drops what's left of his cigarette, grinds it out with the toe of Tommy Browning's right sneaker. "I'm gonna head back in. What're those bottles for, anyway?"
"I'm right behind you. I'll let you know when I get there."
"Yeah, okay—um—don't be too long—okay, Trey."
"I won't."
As Ryan leaves, Trey takes a final drag on his cigarette. He puts it out by hand—crushing it into the concrete next to him. He stands up, goes over and picks up the remnants of Ryan's cigarette. He crosses over to where the concrete ends. He digs a small hole in the soft dirt and buries the evidence. He looks up and glances around to make sure that there are no witnesses.
There's only one—and Trey's pretty sure she's not talking. Trey's also pretty sure that there are pit bulls out there that are sweet and gentle and would never harm a hair on anyone's head—and he's absolutely, positively certain that this isn't one of them. Which is a shame, really, since she'd been such a rambunctious playful pup back when the Trents first brought her home. She was beautiful back then, too—with a gorgeous coat, brindled black and brown. Of course, that was three years ago—a lifetime ago. She was hardly recognizable anymore as the pup she'd once been. Her coat was flat, covered in grime and dander. Her body a mess of open sores. And as she grew, the spiked choker collar they'd bought for a pup had tightened around the dog's neck—it had become embedded in her skin. A short lifetime of being chained to a stake in the ground, of hot summer days with little or no water and of being on the receiving end of Mr. Trent's steel-tipped boots had changed her. It had changed her a lot—because Peaches is one mean and nasty little bitch and Trey doesn't have any doubt that she would happily tear his arm off and eat it for dinner if given the opportunity.
"See 'ya, Peaches." He waggles his fingers at the dog. She raises her head from the ground and offers a soft bark at the boy's departing form.