Usual disclaims apply. What I want and what I own are two completely different things.
Muchtvs, my dear, I sadly fear that I may have told you that I have a "neurological impingement" instead of a "neural impingement," which is really quite embarrassing—but just may more accurately describe my condition and my complete inability to think straight for the past few weeks.
As proof, I offer Chapter Ten:
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It's as they're finishing their respective tasks that Dawn stumbles into the room, a little unsteady on her feet.
Trey rotates his head to the sound of the bedroom door opening. He immediately notes how his mother trips a little on the edge of the carpet where it separates the boys' room from the vinyl flooring of the hallway beyond—how she reaches out with a quick hand and steadies herself on the doorframe.
"Hey, you're not dressed for bed, yet?" She's surprised for an instant before noting what her younger son is doing—before seeing that Ryan is mutilating the shoes that they picked up at the church tonight—before yelling for her husband to come see what the boy has done.
Because his mother's attention is so totally absorbed in his brother right now—because she's not even aware of her other son's presence—Trey takes the opportunity to furtively slip Tommy Browning's right shoe under the table, to drop it silently to the floor under the desk and to subtly kick it to where he hopes it's not visible. He then turns his body in his seat, hooks a casual elbow over the back of the chair and carefully watches as the interchange between his mother and his brother unfolds.
The first thing Trey notices is that Ryan could not look more guilty if Fr. Kevin himself caught him coloring on the confessional walls. The younger boy's whole body visibly stiffens at his mother's words, his eyes widen in panic and quickly dart to Trey and then back to his mother, his face reddens, he swallows hard, he takes a labored breath and—and then he does nothing. Except to convey his complete and utter surrender. His shoulders hunch, he fixes his eyes on the bedspread in front of him and he focuses on it with so much intensity, it is as if his continued existence depends entirely on his ability to deduce the precise number of white nylon stitches that hold together the stiff and faded navy fabric. Even though those stitches are likely to be so blurred under the force of his stare that Trey doubts he could even tell you how many are in the 1-inch square that lies directly under his nose.As Trey quickly considers and dismisses the thought that the comforter might actually spontaneously combust from the intensity of his little brother's concentrated look and give them all a welcomed distraction—and give his brother a momentary reprieve—he wishes for the umpteenth time that Ryan wouldn't always wear his heart so pathetically and prominently pinned to his sleeve—that his brother possess the ability to hide his emotions better—or even at all. That every single thought contemplated or feeling encountered wasn't so instantly and unmistakably broadcast through his little brother's expression and demeanor. Because Trey knows that looking guilty in the face of an accusation is just about the quickest way to guarantee you're going to get your ass kicked—and nobody's ever looked guiltier than Ryan does at this exact moment.
In the face of his brother's pitiful display of total desperation, Trey makes a silent promise to himself—and to Ryan—that he'll be more diligent in actively taking his little brother under his wing. That he'll make a concerted effort to teach him how to detach himself somewhat from all of the chaos that seems to perpetually engulf their family's home. That he'll show Ryan how to act more distant, how to be tougher—to be stronger. Because, if he can't teach Ryan how to be less sensitive—then, he isn't sure how he can continue to protect his little brother. Without some semblance of a functioning defense system, he's sure that Ryan will not be able to survive in an environment in which their father's beatings and their mother's rebukes are becoming more routine and more callous.
Not that Ryan's ever been a habitual target of either parent's annoyance or frustration—that's been Trey's domain—almost exclusively. Trey's the one who's constantly getting into trouble. The one who gets the notes sent home from school for the fighting, for neglecting to turn in the homework, for the failing of three tests in a row in social studies—for forging his father's signature on the note about the three failed exams. Not that trouble has to go far out of its way to find him. Or out of its way at all. Trey's reckless. He's stubborn and impulsive—and, for the most part, he just doesn't give a damn about the consequences. For the most part, the consequences don't even enter his mind—not even if his actions guarantee an ass kicking from his father or a hysterical tirade from his mother. Trey's learned that the ass kickings and the tirades happen anyway. So he figures that he might as well earn them. Or at least have some fun.
Ryan's different. He actually tries to behave. Well, most of the time. When he's not stealing cigarettes and stuffing them in a t-shirt and hiding them in the farthest recesses of his dresser drawer, or sneaking out for a late night smoke behind the shed in the backyard, anyway. He usually exerts a conscious effort to try to remain invisible to their father, to slip under his radar and to avoid detection. Because Ryan's well aware that unexpected attention from their father these days so often leads to the back of a hand or the wrong end of a belt—or a fist—for transgressions as minor as a broken dish, a raised voice, a defiant look.
Ordinarily, Ryan has little to fear from either parent. Ordinarily, his parents are preoccupied with the transgressions of their older son—transgressions both real and perceived. But, Trey's not entirely certain that something in the family dynamic hasn't fundamentally shifted tonight—that by stepping up to the plate after his reckless and monumentally stupid act of petty larceny, Ryan hasn't caused their father to pen his name in indelible ink on the card that enters him into the lineup and marks him as fair game.
So, looking at his brother's still form—huddled and pathetic on the bed—Trey vows that he will teach him the importance of saving such an outward display of contrition for when it really matters—for when it could possibly make a difference—for when it could be used in mitigation of punishment—and not when it can be presumed an admission of guilt.
"Aw, Ryan." Clearly exasperated, Dawn reaches out an impatient hand and waits. Ryan steals a tentative upward glance and quickly scoots himself to the edge of the bed when he realizes what his mother expects. He pushes himself to an upright position and shuffles over to where she remains, just inside the doorway to the room. He hands her Tommy Browning's left shoe and stands, a pitifully plaintive look on his upturned face."Sorry." He whispers.
When their father's form fills the room's narrow doorway, Ryan's gaze instantly drops to the floor as his face registers the anxiety that he's feeling. Truth be told, Trey's a little uneasy as well. But, he wills himself to appear relaxed, to appear calm—a bemused spectator to his brother's folly. As Dawn holds the shoe up for John's inspection, Trey is quick to assess his father and to take note of the exact level of potential danger involved.
It's impossible not to immediately notice how John's taut and muscular biceps strain against the thin cotton fabric of his white t-shirt. The shirt is untucked, but short and tight enough across his lean abdomen to reveal that the top button of his jeans is now undone—and to show that he has not refastened his belt. Which isn't good news. Trey knows from unwanted experience that the familiar bite of the thick brown leather is substantially less painful than the sharper sting of a thinner and more readily accessible extension cord that is so often his father's second weapon of choice when retrieval of the first proves inconvenient. Trey's eyes quickly move to his father's feet. Strike two. He's still wearing his steel-tipped work boots. And the lit cigarette so casually dangling from his father's right hand is a definite strike three.
Not that John has ever purposefully burned either of the boys—or that Trey thinks that he ever would. But his father has been known to forget entirely about the cigarette's presence and the fact that it may come in contact with the same cheek that is the target of a quick blow from the back of the hand that holds it—or that hot ash may unintentionally fly off and strike exposed skin during the course of the impassioned gesticulation that so often accompanies his heated reprimands.
"Look what Ryan did." Dawn whines as she holds up Tommy Browning's shoe for her husband's inspection.
"Sorry."
"What the hell were you thinking?" His mother turns her attention back to her younger son and waves the shoe right under his downward turned nose. "These were perfectly good shoes, Ryan."
"Sorry." He whispers for the third time and Trey notes how he nervously moves the pen behind his back as if secreting the instrument of his vandalism will somehow make a crap's bit of difference. Trey waits for Ryan to give an explanation—to stick up for himself—or to tell his mom to fuck off. He's disappointed, but not in the least bit surprised, when his brother remains quiet. So, Trey adds another lesson to his mental checklist of things he's got to teach his little brother. Things that no one else will.
"He's just trying to make them look less like they belong to someone else." Trey finally offers, drawing his parents' attention squarely to himself.
"What?" Dawn asks as John leans a shoulder into the side of the doorway, crosses his ankles and takes a long drag. An absentminded thumb flicks the end of the cigarette, causing some ash to fall to the floor.
"The kid who threw those away goes to Ryan's school."
"So?"
"So, if Ryan knows who they belong to—well, everyone else is gonna know it, too." Sometimes his mother could be so fucking dense. Trey steals a quick glance at his father and notes his bemused expression—hopes that he, at least, may be getting it.
"They're perfectly good sneakers." His mother repeats.
"They're still perfectly good, Mom—Jesus, who cares? It's not like he took a knife to them or anything." Trey stops just short of telling his mother about the rubbing alcohol and the nail polish remover. There's no reason to tip off the parents that his earlier trip to the bathroom was all a ruse—not when to do so would most definitely not end well for him.
"Trey!"
"Yeah—yeah, I got it, Dad. Sorry. And sorry, Jesus." Trey clasps his hands together, pulls them to his chest and throws his eyes momentarily heavenward, before looking back to his father and letting his arms drop back to their original positions.
"I'll add it to my list for confession—I swear. But, I just don't get why this is a big deal. Ryan drew on some cruddy sneakers—sneakers that already had a stripe filled in. So now they have two. Who cares?" He just barely manages to stop himself from adding the fuck between the "who" and the "cares." Because while he's all for helping Ryan out, seeing as he's the one who instructed his brother to write on the sneakers in the first place—he's still making a half-assed attempt to get out of the evening with no further damage done.
"John?" Dawn looks to her husband for support. She holds the shoe up for his inspection. He regards it for a few seconds from his position in the doorway before taking another languid draw on the cigarette. When he finally speaks, it's through the cloud of smoke that's escaping from his mouth and nose.
"As much as I hate to say it, I think I'm with the boy on this one. The shoes were already pretty goddamned ugly when you brought 'em home. Ryan looked like a fucking moron in them."
"That's not the point, John—the point is that he shouldn't be ruining perfectly good shoes."
"So, what do you want me to do about it, Dawn?" John's tone is sharp and his voice drips with the fatigue of a long and unsatisfying night. "You want me to take him into the other room and hit him with the belt again? You think I should smack him around a little and make him cry?"
"Of course not. I want you to tell him that what he did is wrong. That he shouldn't be going around and ruining perfectly good stuff."
"Hey, Ryan." John sighs, indicating that he wants his son to come closer with a nod of the head.
"I'm sorry." Ryan takes a few tentative steps towards his father, his eyes still downcast, his hands clasped behind his back, the pen nervously tapping against the small of his back.
"Try not to draw on anyone's ugly-assed shoes anymore."
"Yes, sir."
"And, you." John points an accusatory finger at his older son. "Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face. It's goddamned disrespectful."
"Yes, sir." Trey quickly agrees, even though he couldn't possibly.
John puts the cigarette between his lips and, as he reaches out a quick hand, he tries not to notice how his son instinctively winces and jerks his head away. As he uncrosses his ankles and pushes himself upright, he runs his hand through Ryan's tousled hair and gruffly pulls the boy towards him by the back of his head. He holds him close for an awkward few seconds before releasing him.
"Now, go to bed—and I'd better not see or hear from either of you little pricks again tonight—or there will be tears." His eyes fix on Ryan as he says the last words and Trey notices how the twin red smudges high on each of his brother's cheeks flush a slightly darker shade of crimson.
"Good night." John's sharp look lets Trey know that his father's completely aware that he's still being a wiseass.
"What—I'm not even allowed to say 'good night?' "
John shakes his head, but he's too damned tired to rise to the bait. He leaves the room, followed by his wife, who's still holding onto Tommy Browning's left shoe.
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I think I've got one more chapter in me before I take the boys on a little vacation. The boys being Ryan and Trey, not my own boys. Because my boys are the kind you take vacations from, not the kind you vacation with. If you ever met my boys, you'd know what I mean. In fact, come over and meet my boys. We're looking for a babysitter. We can never find one who'll come back for round two. Oh, and just a hint, if you child is ever described as "something," "something else" or a "character" by those you pay to watch him—it's not a compliment. I'm just saying.