Disclaimer: Usual disclaimers apply about me and "The OC" and our one-sided relationship where I own nothing and it owns me.
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Chapter Five
"You can't keep doing this, Ryan." Mom's pissed off. She waves her cigarette at me. At least it isn't a drink. At least she isn't drunk. She's working this afternoon. Not that she never has a drink or two before starting her shift. She often has a "pick me up" before leaving the house. It's only a matter of time before they smell it on her. It's only a matter of time before she gets fired. Again.
I look past her left ear. Focus on the crucifix on the wall and wait for her to stop yelling. The crucifix. It's been on a wall of every house or apartment I've called home for as long as I can remember. Except for the time in foster care. Not that I'd ever considered that home. That was just doing time. My own personal jail stint after Dad got arrested. With a fucking ape of a warden. A fucking ape of a warden who wasn't even supposed to be there.
The prick had put another kid in the hospital a few years earlier and Janey'd only just gotten back on the foster care list right before we'd been taken from Mom. If you could call it being taken from Mom. Considering Mom wasn't there. And considering that that's why we'd been taken. But Janey'd signed something that said she'd broken up with Ted. That he was no longer around. That she had an active restraining order and no contact. So she made it onto the emergency care short-term list. She was allowed to keep kids for up to 60 days. Kids from families so fucked up they were picked up in the middle of the night. And she was allowed to keep those kids for up to 60 days. Even though I was there for four months. Even though Ted was there for four months, too.
"You can't keep staying out all night. You have to let us know where you are." Us? Who the fuck is 'us,' Mom? You and who else? AJ? Fucking AJ?
I keep my eyes on the crucifix. It's always the first thing she puts up when we move. The first thing she packs when we leave. It's become a symbol of home. A figure who is beaten, tortured and dying. And it's somehow become synonymous with home. How fucking depressing. I'm not even sure why Mom's so attached to the thing. It's not like we even go to church anymore. It's not like she goes. She hasn't since we moved from Fresno. Not since Dad got arrested. And it's Dad's anyway. She hasn't kept anything else of Dad's. So why keep the crucifix? And why hang it up each time we move? Why carefully pack it away each time we leave?
Maybe she doesn't even know why she does it. Or maybe there's some kind of pathological psychological bullshit behind it. A subconscious reminder of where Dad is. A symbol of his suffering or some crap like that. And if she's doing it on purpose—well, I don't give a shit. I don't. If he's stupid enough to rob a fucking convenience store. If he's stupid enough to point a loaded gun at some lady. Some mother with two little kids to raise on her own. Some lady who was just trying to scratch out a living. To make her fear for her life. To make her think that just maybe this is the day she's going to die and leave her kids motherless—for what? For a minimum wage job. For shitty hours. For $32 and change. Fuck him. I mean, seriously. Fuck him! He's right where he belongs.
It takes me a few seconds to realize that Mom's waiting for an answer. "You were at work. We have no phone and I'm not allowed to call you at the restaurant. How—exactly—was I supposed to let you know?"
"You could have let AJ know."
I let my silence and my look tell her that where I am is none of AJ's fucking business. But, she's so fucking oblivious, she doesn't even get it. She doesn't get how totally fucked up it is that she even suggested it.
Instead, she just confirms her fucked up line of thought. "You should have let AJ know, Ryan. You should have cleared it with him."
"Cleared it. You wanted me to clear it with fucking AJ?"
"Ryan." And she's got this way of saying my name. This way of saying my name that makes it sounds like an accusation.
"AJ's still looking to kick my ass, Mom. I'm not coming in here when he's all coked up and surrounded by those assholes he hangs out with."
"Where were you last night?"
"Theresa's."
"You spent the night with your girlfriend?" Fuck. I should have said that I crashed at Arturo's. I should have said that I crashed at Trey's. I should have made up a name. What the fuck is wrong with me? My mind isn't thinking like it should. I'm too fucking tired for my brain to be working like it should.
"She's not my girlfriend."
"That's so not the point, Ryan."
"Nothing happened. I spent the night on the couch. You can ask her mom. She was home."
"I will."
"Good."
I can't help but think how fucked up all of this is. How seriously fucked up it is. She's pissed off at me because I spent the night at Theresa's. Where I'd been given a hot meal. Where I'd been given a couch, a pillow and a blanket. Where I was safe. And she's pissed off because I didn't come home last night to a house full of fucking strangers who were drunk and strung out on fucking coke. And fucking meth. And whatever other shit they were using last night. And these fucking coked-up strangers were hanging out with her fucking boyfriend. Her fucking boyfriend, who just so happens to want to rip my fucking head off. I was completely safe at Theresa's. But she wanted me here. Where I would not have been safe. How fucked up is that? And what's even more fucked up is that she doesn't see it. That I can never make her see it. So I don't even try.
"Where is he, anyway?" Because as forceful a presence he in the house, his absence is also palpable. A big black hole. No truck in the yard. No AJ on the chair in front of the TV. It's like the crucifix has been ripped from the wall. Because, lately, it's just not home without him. And that's fucked up in more ways than I can even explain. In more ways than I'd ever want to explain.
"Who—AJ? He's got business." She finally gets around to lighting the cigarette. It takes her three or four times to get a flame from the lighter. I'm tempted to ask her for a cigarette, but even I know that this isn't the time. She'll rip me a new one for smoking. Not that she minds that I smoke. In a better mood, she'd offer me a cigarette herself.
"AJ's got business?" I can't keep the skepticism out of my voice. I don't even try.
"He's got a thing."
"A thing."
As she waves her cigarette around in an ambiguous gesture, I half allow myself to hope that AJ took off. That, despite our earlier conversation, she has no fucking clue where he is. That he ditched her sorry ass. That he's not coming back. But that dream barely takes wing before it comes crashing down with her next breath. "He'll be back a little later. He just had to take care of some stuff."
Because, why would he leave? Why would he move out, when he's got everything he needs right here? Why would he leave when he can keep freeloading off my mom? When she gives him everything he needs. Everything he wants. And she takes him back into her bed after taking the back of his hand. Time and time again.
"This thing—is it with his dealer?"
"Ryan." There's a warning in her voice that I ignore.
"His kids?"
She takes a big drag off the cigarette and I know I've hit a nerve. I know that I should leave it alone. But I can't. I deliberately cross the line.
"Is it with his wife, Mom?" Suddenly, my cheek stings from where she slaps me. I don't expect it. Even though I should. And there's the metallic taste of blood in my mouth, even though she didn't break the skin. Even though it's just a slap.
"You've got a smart mouth, Ryan." And, apparently, it's the only thing I've got smart these days. Because, I'm doing stupid stuff. Really stupid stuff. Like fucked up stupid stuff. Like going to school hung over and maybe still a little bit half drunk. Like blowing off school work. And blowing off school. Like challenging AJ when I know he can kick my ass and is looking for any excuse to do so. Like letting Theresa give me a blow job on the couch last night after her mom went to sleep. Even though we both knew she could come out of her bedroom at any time. That it would be just like her to make sure that we weren't doing anything. Even though we were. And even though I'd promised myself that nothing would happen.
"You've got a smart fucking mouth, Ryan." She repeats as she takes another drag on the cigarette. Flicks the ashes into a coffee cup on the counter. Waits for me to say I'm sorry. But I don't. I won't. I'm not. About this one thing, I'll never be sorry. I'll never apologize when it comes to AJ. Because I'm not wrong. He's a big, vile, useless piece of shit. And I won't apologize for him. Or for what I think of him. Not that I have to. Mom's got that covered. She apologizes for him all the fucking time. She makes excuses for him all the fucking time. About him hitting her. About him hitting us. And that's bullshit. Even if she can't see it. It's bullshit, anyway.
So, I'm not going to apologize for mentioning his wife. I'm not going to apologize for mentioning his kids. Because he's married. And he's got two little kids. And because not mentioning them doesn't make them not real. Ignoring them doesn't make them cease to be. And he really should be at his own fucking house, beating the crap out of his own fucking wife and beating the crap out of his own fucking kids.
But, not really. Because as soon as I think it, I know I don't mean it. Because his kids are little. And his wife is fragile. Or at least that's how she looked to me that one time she came by. When she was chasing down the rumor that wasn't just a rumor that he'd moved in with Mom. And she'd had the kids in tow. All three of them composed entirely of thin, angular limbs, dark hair and impossibly big eyes. And as much as Mom doesn't deserve an asshole like AJ in her life. As much as Trey and I don't deserve an asshole like AJ in our lives. Those little kids don't deserve him either. And just because he's their dad doesn't make them deserve him. Because nobody chooses their dad. He just is.
Or maybe she does deserve him. His wife. Because she chose him. Because she married him. Because she let him be the father of her kids. But, I don't let myself go too far down that path, because that would be admitting that Mom deserves it. Because she chose Dad. And because she's sleeping with AJ. And I won't go there.
Mom and I stand in hostile silence for several seconds. I know she's thinking about defending AJ. Or attacking me. I can see her fighting with herself. Her eyes dance as she considers what to say. Or what not to say. She pulls more smoke into her lungs while she decides. I'm tensed up. On edge. And I'm ready to bolt if she comes after me physically. But when she finally speaks, it's not what I expect.
"Will you see Trey today?"
"I dunno. Maybe—probably. He'll want to watch the football game."
"Is he coming over here?"
I lift a shoulder. "I doubt it."
"AJ doesn't want him around . . . if AJ finds him here…" She doesn't finish the sentence. Takes a final drag off the cigarette. Drops it into the cup. "Just tell Trey he shouldn't come by. He's not welcome here."
"So now AJ's making the rules?" I ask the question, even though I know the answer. AJ's been making the rules ever since his fucking shadow crossed our fucking threshold.
"AJ lives here. Trey doesn't."
"Trey's your kid. And AJ doesn't even pay rent."
"You don't pay rent, either, Ryan. I do. I'm the one that works. So, I'm the one who makes the rules. And I don't want Trey coming around here. Not anymore. Not after what happened the other night. Not after he attacked AJ."
"Trey didn't do anything wrong, Mom. He was defending you. He was defending me. AJ's the one who was out of line."
And I know and she knows that Trey wasn't defending either of us. That should have happened the night before. The night before, when he'd left. When he knew AJ was beating on Mom. When he knew I was about to get into a fight I couldn't win.
But, he did come back later. He did land couple of punches. So that counts for something. Even though Trey would have defended us. Even though Trey would have taken a beating if it meant that Mom or I would be left alone. Because Trey would have. But not this Trey. Not the fucked up Trey.
"This isn't a conversation, Ryan. Just tell Trey that he shouldn't come home." She takes a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out. Gathers her things. She heads for the door and reconsiders. She turns. Adds. "You can tell him he can come by the restaurant if he needs anything. He just can't come here."
