"Out of Season"
Part 18
By Sister Rose
The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement is intended in this fictional work.
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Three weeks later, Ryan knew he was about to become a full-time short-order cook. Mr. Saunders had poisoned the Roberts Construction site with snide digs about Ryan's usefulness and relative worth in the world. Ryan hadn't thought his co-workers would be so quick to believe a college kid they had known only a few weeks over a guy they had worked with for so long, but he had no other way to explain the sideways looks he was getting.
Ryan supposed it was the power of repetition at work: Hear something two or three times an hour and you start to believe it. And that didn't even count all the times Mr. Saunders had gone out with the guys and shared his opinion with them, nights when Ryan had to work and couldn't go out to a bar, nights when Summer was coming over and Ryan wouldn't go to a bar.
Just before quitting time Friday, Mr. Roberts called Ryan in and chewed him out for his bad attitude and inability to get along with Mr. Saunders.
Ryan stared at the floor, gaining intimate knowledge of the shape of the linoleum covering the trailer floor, and said, "Yes, sir," a lot, figuring he would be lucky to last another week.
"Take the weekend to think this through," Mr. Roberts said. "By Monday, this needs to be straightened out."
"Yes, sir," Ryan said.
He waited until he was sure Mr. Roberts was finished, then went out the door, closing it carefully behind him, not slamming, no matter how much he wanted to hear that satisfying crash. Like closing the door on a chapter in his life. Well, that was that. He had known it couldn't last. He could pick up his last check Monday and start looking for another job.
He looked around the work site. The sun was starting to set, and the timbers were bathed in a golden California glow. He listened to the chatter of men starting to finish their work day, their muffled comments carrying through the clear air. Ryan sucked it all in for remembering later.
He turned back around. No point in waiting until Monday. He knocked on the trailer, his knuckle rap echoing through the hollow door.
"Atwood, what's up?" Mr. Roberts said as he answered the door. Ryan looked at Mr. Roberts then put his eyes on the floor.
"Why don't I just get my last check today, Mr. Roberts," Ryan said.
"What's this?" Mr. Roberts said.
"If I could just get my last check, I'll be out of here," Ryan said.
"Atwood, you don't have to quit. We can work this out," Mr. Roberts said.
"I understand the situation, Mr. Roberts," Ryan persisted. "If I could just get my check."
Mr. Roberts sat heavily into his chair, and it rolled backward a little. He dug around in a bottom drawer for the business checkbook, then pulled a ballpoint from his pocket.
He checked a ledger and tallied Ryan's hours, then scribbled a number and a signature before tearing the check out by its perforated edges.
Ryan didn't look at the amount. He folded the check and stuck it in his back pocket. He considered asking for a recommendation but decided it was silly. He wouldn't be getting another job in construction. It was time to leave childhood and silly dreams behind.
"Are you sure you won't reconsider?" Mr. Roberts said. "You know, I hired you at Sandy Cohen's suggestion, but you've earned your way since then. If you could just make more of an effort to get along with Chip ..."
"Thank you for giving me a chance," Ryan said. He met Mr. Roberts' eyes. "I'm sorry for putting you in this position."
He turned and walked down the steps of the trailer for the last time.
"Hey, Atwood," Josh called from atop some framing. "We going out tonight?"
Ryan said nothing. He waved a hand once and then let it go,just like his career.
He would miss Josh's banter, and the jokes about who had gotten laid when and where and how often. Ryan would also miss getting paid. He needed to take his check straight to the Mr. Cash store and send out his last set of money orders. He had written notes last night to everyone who needed to know about the possibility of unemployment, letting them know it was the last money they could expect from him for a while. Of course, he hadn't expected unemployment to arrive quite so quickly.
He reached in his pocket but couldn't find his notes. When he got to his pickup, he rooted around in the tweeded fabric fold of the bench seat, but they weren't there, either. Crap. He was going to have to go back to his room to find them. Probably left them sitting on his dresser. Or maybe on his new wicker chair, an absolutely darling find at a garage sale, or so Summer said. Ha. And maybe she thought he actually believed she found wicker in perfect condition at a garage sale. He wondered which Pier 1 got her business.
Ryan drove back to his room, thankful that he wouldn't see Summer for another six days. Maybe he would have a new job by the time he saw her again. Maybe he would have thought up an explanation by then that she would buy. Maybe she really did find her wicker at a garage sale and maybe pigs really did fly.
He pulled into the parking lot and let out a "Shit" on an exhaled breath. Summer's car was there. Well, maybe she wanted to show off some new lingerie.
Ryan unlocked the door and opened it, surprised to see Summer on his bed with textbooks and papers strewn around her and tear streaks on her face. No lingerie in sight.
"Summer?" he said softly.
"What are all these?" she demanded loudly, holding up his folded notes. "You cheating son of a bitch."
"Letters," he said, a question mark in his voice. What else would they be? And why was she angry?
"To Dawn?" she screamed. "You louse, you rat, you, you, you ...."
Some of the letters went flying past Ryan's ear as Summer tried to come up with the right words.
"Yes," Ryan answered cautiously. "What's wrong?"
"Why didn't you tell me you already had a girlfriend?" she accused. Well, yelled.
"What?"
"Who's Dawn?" Summer said. She wasn't crying now, but she had been. Puffy eyes and a wet nose told the true tale.
"My mom," Ryan said.
"Your what?" Summer said.
"My mom's name is Dawn," Ryan said.
They waited a minute, not looking at each other. Summer's hands opened and closed a textbook cover convulsively, repetitively. She watched herself do it but made no effort to stop. Ryan knelt down to gather his wrinkled notes, sorting them into their envelopes. He carried them to his dresser and put them in his top drawer before walking back across to Summer.
Ryan settled cautiously beside her on the bed and looked at her sideways. She didn't meet his eyes as he carefully salvaged an economics text from her hands, smoothing the glossy cover. He gathered all the papers around Summer and stacked them neatly into a binder. He repacked her college gear in her backpack and stowed it below the bed. Out of things to do, his hands started playing with the tassels on the new silky bed cover Summer had bought him, claiming the old one didn't match the new walls.
He waited for her to talk. She would when she was ready.
"It's spring break," she finally said, voice low and embarrassed. "I told everyone I was leaving town, and then I thought I would spend the week here with you instead."
"Spend the week here? With me?"
"Yeah, kinda like playing house for a week," she said.
"That's great," Ryan said lamely.
"Yeah," Summer said. "I thought it was a great idea until I got here and I read these letters. I mean, I knew they were your private letters and I shouldn't read them, but I saw the name Dawn' and I saw you were sending her money, and I thought, that stinking man-whore is seeing someone else,' and then I read the letters and you're supporting ... how many people are you supporting?"
"I don't like to talk about my family," Ryan said, his face closing. He looked away.
"You don't have to tell me ..." Summer said then finished, "but I really want to know. Especially the part about half of them being women."
Ryan rubbed his hand over his face and tried to think of a way to explain his family, his messed-up, dysfunctional family, his flawed, not-always-loving, imperfect family that was nonetheless all he had to claim for kin.
"My family isn't like yours, Summer," Ryan found himself saying. "My mom -- Dawn -- is a drunk. She's in a rehab place and I'm paying for part of it, trying to give her a second chance, you know? If she doesn't finish the rehab, she'll be in jail for a long time on a manslaughter charge.
"You know about Trey," Ryan went on. He checked Summer's face. She hadn't fled in disgust yet. He went back to watching his hands fray a tassel. "I send him a little each month for the commissary. He can buy cigarettes and whatever and trade them so he doesn't get beaten up every day of his life.
"My dad, I hadn't talked to him in years, but about six months ago, I heard he's out of the pen in this halfway house. I send him a little bit so he can make restitution and stay out of prison. That's it. Oh, and now and then I send a little bit to my friend Arturo's mom, kind of a thanks for taking care of me when I was little. We used to live near them, and now she's taking care of his niece, so I can pay them back some."
"That's it?" Summer said in a flat tone. "You're supporting four adults plus yourself?"
"Not really supporting," Ryan said. "Just helping out. And these notes are to tell them I can't do anything for them for the next couple of months."
"Why didn't you tell me about your family?" Summer said.
Ryan went to the bathroom and got a cloth. He ran the water until it was warm, then wet the cloth and carried it out to Summer.
She dabbed around her eyes, missing a couple of mascara spots. Ryan sat beside her on the bed, not looking at her.
"You don't have to hide it from me," Summer said. "You know my family isn't exactly The Brady Bunch.' I can't stand my stepmother, and my dad and I don't get along."
"Your dad loves you," Ryan said. "My family's like a train wreck. A bad one. I'd jump off, but I'm part of the train."
He took the wash cloth back from her and held her chin with one hand. He wiped around her eyes with the other, gently removing the blotches she had missed.
"I was so mad I was about to drive over to the site and yell at you," Summer said.
"I'm glad you didn't," Ryan said honestly, looking at Summer's face and not weighing his words. "I didn't need two dramas at work today."
"What was the other drama?"
Uh-oh. Ryan had flubbed that one and it was too late to change his answer.
"Um," he started, folding and refolding the cloth in his hands into tighter and tighter squares. "Today was my last day working for your dad."
"Did he fire you because of me?" Summer demanded instantly.
"No," Ryan was able to say truthfully. Thank God she had phrased the question that way. "I asked for my last check."
"What happened?" Summer said relentlessly.
"It was a mutual thing," Ryan said. "It was time for a change."
He got up and took the wet, mascara-covered cloth back to the bathroom and spread it on the edge of the porcelain sink.
"No, it wasn't," Summer said, following him and blocking the door. "You've never lied to me before, Atwood. Don't start now."
"Summer, this is my fault," Ryan said.
"Still lying," Summer said. "You would never quit a job. If I weren't your third job you might take another one, but you wouldn't quit one."
It was nice to hear Summer knew him so well. It was also inconvenient to hear Summer knew him so well.
"Summer," Ryan said.
"Just shut up, Atwood, until you can tell the truth," she said. She stomped over and got her car keys off her nail. Someone -- not he -- had painted a goopy peach heart around the nail on the periwinkle wall. The heart matched the peach baseboards but clashed with the Pepto-pink bathroom. "Let's go."
"Where?" Ryan said. He wasn't sure he wanted to get in a car with her in this mood. He wasn't sure she should be driving in this mood at all.
"To the post office, right?" Summer snapped.
Ryan nodded and walked out. At the last minute, he remembered his letters and ran back to snatch them out of his dresser. When he got to the car, Summer was standing by the passenger side waiting for him.
"You're my driver," she said, gesturing with her cast. "You drive."
He opened the door for her and went around to the driver's side to let himself in. He was too confused to think, so he didn't. He buckled his seat belt and helped Summer with hers, started the car and put it in reverse. They sat in Summer's bucket seats, on separate sides, in silence as they drove. The sound of the tires grinding over the freeway seemed especially loud to Ryan.
"I'm going to find out," Summer said suddenly. "You might as well tell me, because I'm going to find out what happened."
She was right. He should probably just tell her. But he didn't want to be the one to wreck her illusions.
Ryan drove, shifting gears smoothly as Summer sat staring out the window, chin firmly jutted out in a displeased princess expression. Her arms were crossed, and her manicure was doing a tap dance on her biceps. Ryan would have taken time to admire how the nail gloss and lip gloss matched, but he was driving. And he was scared, slightly.
Which was the thought that made him pull off the freeway and into an empty church parking lot. Acres of empty parking spaces surrounded the red convertible as Ryan stopped the car across the lines. The sun had set further, and Summer's car cast a shadow halfway across the lot. Of all the things Ryan had learned in juvie, the paramount lesson was to face his fears directly. They weren't going to go away, and they weren't going to get better until he had taken care of them. He killed the engine and spoke into the silence.
"OK," he said. "I'll tell you."
Summer finally deigned to look at him.
"The truth?" she said.
"You won't like it, and you have to promise not to do anything about it," he said.
"I don't know that I can make that promise to somebody who doesn't trust me with the truth."
Ryan paused and bit his lower lip, then went on.
"OK, I deserved that," he said. "But I still don't want you to do anything about it. I should have quit a long time ago. I shouldn't have been taking your dad's money while I'm having sex with his daughter. So this is all my fault. It just got around to biting me on the ass."
Summer dropped the princess pose. She uncrossed her arms and turned in her seat to face him.
"I couldn't get along with Mr. Saunders," Ryan said. "Your dad called me in and asked me to make a better effort. So I asked for my last check."
"So Chip was still giving you a hard time over me," Summer said.
"No!" Ryan said. "I could have worked harder to make Mr. Saunders like me." He paused. "But I didn't want to."
"I know better than anyone that Chip's an ass," Summer said. "But it was only for a few more weeks. You could have done it."
Ryan winced, and Summer caught him.
"What else," she demanded.
He hadn't wanted to tell her, but ...
"OK, Summer," Ryan said, looking out the driver's side window. He was sorry he had to tell her the facts of life about construction in California. "Who's your dad's biggest supplier?"
"Saunders Industries, but what does that have to do with ... oh," she answered.
"And in a business where everything is about deadlines, who does your dad depend on the most?" Ryan said rhetorically. "So when the son of his most important supplier says a day laborer is a lazy bum, who is your dad going to believe? And didn't you say they're friends, too? When the son of a friend says the concrete-pourer oughta go, what's your dad gonna say?"
"Daddy fired you because of Chip?" Summer said.
"No. I quit so he wouldn't have to fire me," Ryan corrected. "He's been way too good to me to be put in the middle like that. And like I said, I should've quit when you and I got involved, but I really needed the money."
"And you don't now?"
"Not enough to cause trouble for your dad. And for you."
"Me? I can take care of myself."
"Yeah, but you shouldn't have to," Ryan said. He reached for the door latch, got out of the car and walked around to slump on the rear bumper.
Summer followed him. Ryan took in the fresh California air of the early evening. Newport air always smelled different to him than Chino air ever had or juvie air or Fresno air or any other kind. Newport air smelled like hope.Sometimes Ryan wasn't sure he should be breathing it.
"How have your dates with Mr. Cohen been going?"
"Seth," she emphasized his name, "is a funny guy. I've had worse dates. And no, I didn't sleep with him."
"Summer," Ryan sputtered. "I didn't mean ... I shouldn't have asked ... You didn't have to ..."
"I know you wanted to know, and I know you wouldn't have asked. And I wouldn't sleep around behind your back anyway. You should know that. God, you're irritating," Summer said.
"And now I'm jobless and irritating," Ryan said. "Do you really want to spend the week with me? I'm going to be crabby until I find another job."
Summer looked him up and down. Her eyes stopped on the crotch of his work pants. She reached out -- with the arm without a cast on it, thank goodness -- and thwacked him in the stomach.
"You can make it up to me with sex."