Content WARNING: The following chapter contains racial profiling and strong language, including a variation of the "N" word used as slang. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter 13: College Credits, Street Credit
Thursday, November 27, 2014 [Thanksgiving]
Marjorie serves both pumpkin and apple pie for dessert with whipped cream and the other a la mode. Jack gladly takes a piece of apple with ice cream. Sophie and Charlotte curiously watch their grandfather eat his pie with ice cream and excitedly decide they want some, too. Tracey thinks it's adorable that Patrick's nieces are fascinated with something as simple as pie and ice cream. Patrick notices Tracey's reaction and smiles warmly. As it gets later, everyone bids each other good night and goes to their rooms. Jack and Marjorie sleep downstairs in the master bedroom, Sophie and Charlotte in what used to be Alexandria's bedroom, Mark and his wife Amber sleep upstairs, and Patrick and Tracey sleep in his old room.
The house is quiet, with everyone sleeping except for Tracey. She tosses and turns, struggling to get comfortable, unsure if it was sleeping in an unfamiliar setting, eating such a large meal, or if the stress of meeting Patrick's family got the better of her or possibly all three. She rolled over, admiring Patrick sleeping peacefully. Usually, it's the reverse, but it made her happy to see him so relaxed, especially since losing his teaching position. She debates waking him up to discuss her troubles but figures she should let him sleep. Tracey smiles warmly before carefully getting out of bed and quietly leaving the room. She descends the stairs but freezes at the bottom, unsure which step creaks. Is it the last or second to last? She decides to skip both and nearly falls face-first down the steps. Luckily, she isn't the only person awake; Jack hears her and comes to her aide.
"Are you okay?" he asks, genuinely concerned.
She feels embarrassed but smiles, quickly recovering. "Yes, I think so."
He leads her to the couch in the living room, encouraging her to take a seat. She notices the fire is lit in the fireplace and enjoys the warmth of the glow. The pair sits beside each other, watching the fire burn the embers rising, feeling awkward until Jack speaks.
"Couldn't sleep either, huh?"
"No."
Tracey watches him frown, wondering what has Jack so troubled, unaware she was the source of the argument between him and Patrick. Jack attempts to apologize.
"I'm sorry," he begins, not knowing how to explain.
"Sorry for what?"
Jack sighs heavily and looks away shamefully. "The man-to-man discussion I had with Patrick was about you."
Tracey has a shocked expression. She also feels hurt that Patrick would talk about her behind her back.
"What about me?"
Jack forces himself to meet Tracey's gaze. He tries to put it as delicately as possible. "Are you really..."
"Pregnant?"
Jack turns red with embarrassment. "Yeah. That. Are you?"
Tracey understands where this is going. "Yes, but I don't think that's what's bothering you."
He's surprised by the sharpness in her voice. "It's not?"
Tracey continues. "No, I think what's troubling you is the concept of it all. My relationship with your son and how it happened, not the pregnancy itself."
Jack contemplates what she said and shrugs, figuring she's right. "I'm sorry it all seems to have happened so fast. I have questions like how, and why, and..."
Tracey scoffs. "Does it matter? I love your son."
Jack's expression softens, and he feels foolish. "You're right. You're absolutely right. I'm sorry. It's none of my business." He pauses and then continues. "No. You know what? It is my business. You seem like a decent young woman, but I'm having trouble understanding why you would do a thing like sleep with your professor."
Tracey went wide-eyed with shock at Jack's comment. In her mind, she was a welcomed guest in his house until he expressed otherwise. She experienced similar humiliation and judgment when she returned to campus after the scandal. But this time felt personal. Tracey didn't care what people thought of her, but for her future father-in-law to criticize her blatantly made her feel guilty. She began crying unsure how to respond. Thankfully, Patrick came to her rescue. Earlier, he felt the empty side of the bed, went downstairs, and had been unintentionally eavesdropping on their conversation. Patrick listened in and held his tongue until he heard his father judge Tracey.
"Dad!" Patrick scolded. He comforted Tracey, then narrowed his eyes and glared at his father. "She isn't obligated to provide a detailed explanation or justify her decision, least of all to you. Our personal matters are just that. Personal."
Jack looked more hurt than furious that his comment stirred up such a fuss. He was merely trying to make sense of his son's situation. Upon Patrick's insistence, Tracey went upstairs while the two men argued. The younger man sighed heavily and then reminded himself not to yell so as not to wake the others.
"I knew coming here was a mistake."
"Son..."
"Don't!" Patrick goes from pacing in front of the couch to plopping beside his father. He yawns tiredly and runs his hands over his face, then through his hair. "Listen, Dad, I've tried to be... civil... and reasonable. But..."
"So have I!" Jack shouts and then calms down. "I didn't expect you to bring someone home for the holidays. I overreacted." Patrick gives his father a look like, you think. "In my defense," adds Jack, "I didn't expect my son to make scandalous news either."
Patrick shoots his father a dirty look. He shakes his head in disgust. "It doesn't matter because Tracey and I are leaving in the morning."
Jack looks at him pleadingly. "What? No. Don't be ridiculous."
"You're ridiculous if you think I'm letting my pregnant fiancée be subjected to your poor treatment and behavior any longer." Patrick's prepared to walk away until his emotions boil over. "Dad, I love Tracey," he states firmly, his voice trembling with emotion. "And I know we went against societal norms, but she's carrying my baby. She deserves my love and support, no matter what you think."
Tracey hears Patrick come upstairs and dries her eyes, not wanting him to see her cry. "Hey," he whispers upon entering the room, pulling her into his arms. "I'm sorry my father was so difficult to deal with." He brushes the tears from her cheeks, his heart breaking at the sight of her so upset.
Tracey sniffles and smiles. "No, it's fine. I'm used to dysfunctional families. I like your father," she assures.
Patrick smiles softly, leaning in to press his lips against her forehead. "You're amazing," he murmurs. "I wish my dad could see what I see in you."
The morning after Thanksgiving, Patrick keeps his word intent on leaving. He finishes packing his and Tracey's luggage. Jack wordlessly watches his son carry the bags down the stairs, knowing better than to comment. He hides in the den, keeping to himself. Mark stands at the bottom of the stairs and looks at his brother, confused and guilty.
"Hey, wait... don't leave on my account. I made a stupid comment. I'm sorry."
Mark is referring to what he now realizes was an insensitive comment at dinner about his brother getting engaged so fast. He tries to take the bags from Patrick, but his brother glares at him to move out of the way. Mark feels hurt, not understanding why his brother is being so stubborn.
"You come home for the first time in over ten years, and now you're running with your tail between your legs because you can't take a joke."
Patrick drops the bags. He isn't quick to anger but feels it boiling beneath the surface. Mark senses his brother's shift in attitude but foolishly keeps provoking him.
"The only reason we asked you back is Marjorie's insistence who wanted to meet you after marrying Dad. The rest of us knew you distanced yourself from us a long time ago after Mom died. Well, it's time to grow up and get over it. You're not the only one who lost her. She was my mom, too!"
Mark strikes a nerve in Patrick, who's had about all he can take of his brother's shaming. Patrick throws a punch, and Mark doesn't see it coming, given Patrick's passive nature. Mark stumbles backward, surprised, but doesn't retaliate. Patrick's expression softens when he realizes what he's done.
"I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to act out of anger."
Mark rubs his sore jaw, still stunned by Patrick's sudden outburst. "Anger? Patrick, you've been angry for years. I'm not the one who's been hiding from our family. You are. And if you think I'm okay with that, you're dead wrong. I miss my brother, but I won't sit around and watch you self-destruct."
Patrick has sad eyes while looking at Mark; aware his brother makes a valid point. "I'm sorry for hitting you and avoiding coming home for so long."
Mark's expression softens as he sees the remorse in his younger brother's eyes. He places his hand on Patrick's shoulder. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't mean to provoke you like that. Mom's death was hard on all of us, but you can't keep running from it. You can't keep pushing us away. We're family, and families stick together even when it's tough. I miss you, man. I miss our family. It breaks my heart to see us all so distant from each other. We used to be so close. I miss the brother I used to know before Mom died. But you can't keep running from your problems. You need to face them head-on, even if it hurts."
Patrick feels emotional, embracing Mark. "I love you, man."
"I love you too, little brother."
Friday, November 28, 2014
Given the drama over the holiday, Patrick couldn't believe he managed to get any writing done. His stomach was in knots with anxiety. Today, the first ten pages of a draft for the remake of Nelson in Naples were due. He nervously sat opposite Solomon Richards in his office, watching him thumb through it. The original took place from 1798 to 1805 in England. In it, the character of Horatio Nelson is a toothless, one-armed columnist. Patrick kept his profession but made him better looking. The Emma Hamilton character is an alluring, celebrity-obsessed, scorned housewife trapped in a loveless marriage.
For the most part, Patrick left her unchanged, feeling she translated well with his changes. William Hamilton is Emma's husband, your stereotypical jealous voyeur. Patrick kept in the love triangle between the three characters, sensing it was essential to the plot. Patrick spent most of the night typing and retyping draft after draft. His latest changes included the year and the setting; Patrick rewrote it so that it took place in the 1960s instead of 1798 and set in Italy instead of England. He figured Rome in the 60s was more romantic. As Solomon read it, Patrick found it hard to gauge his reaction. Would he like it or hate it? When the older gentleman finished reading it, he smiled and commended Patrick's work.
"I've got to admit I had my doubts, but after reading this," exclaimed Solomon, "I'd say we have our script!"
"You're okay with the changes?" Patrick wondered, fearing he got carried away while rewriting.
"Of course, my boy!" assured Solomon, scooting from his desk. He spoke animatedly. "You're a damn fine writer if I say so myself. You understood my vision and captured the characters so well! I especially love your changes to Emma's character, making her pregnant instead of obese after the affair. What inspired that change?" Solomon spoke before Patrick could reply. "Never mind, I don't care, but I love this script!"
Sunday, December 7, 2014
Tracey was in the living room when she heard a vehicle pull into the driveway and peered through the curtains to see who it was. She smiled when she spotted Patrick sitting idle in his vehicle. But her smile faded when she realized he was upset. Tracey watched, concerned as he angrily slammed the glove box, and then the car door closed. She shut her eyes, held her breath, and waited for Patrick to enter. Once the front door finally opened, she breathed a sigh of relief.
"Hey," Tracey greeted timidly.
Patrick's anger melted away at the sight of her. He embraced her tightly and kissed the top of her head. He took her by the hand and led her to the couch, where they cuddled in comfortable silence. Tracey finally got the courage to inquire about what was troubling him. She spoke calmly and encouragingly.
"I think you would feel better if you told me what was wrong."
Patrick looked at her consciously and sighed, figuring Tracey was right. Plus, he didn't want her to think his anger was aimed at her. He removed his arm from around her shoulder and glanced away.
"As you know, today is my birthday," he began smiling and looking in her direction, but it quickly changed to a look of disgust. "And your father thought it would be a good idea to celebrate by taking me to the gun range." Tracey's expression fell, and her heart sank, hoping she heard Patrick wrong, but the look on his face told her her ears didn't deceive her. "Yeah, that was my reaction, too," he concluded.
Earlier that morning, Patrick rolled over in bed and frowned at the space beside him where Tracey should be. He wanted to be mad but couldn't since it was his birthday. Maybe she got up early to plan something special. As Patrick dressed and prepared to face the day, he decided not to shave, opting for a more rugged look since he wasn't a professor anymore. He figured what's the point of being clean-cut. Patrick went to the kitchen, where he discovered Tracey icing a cake.
"Mmmm, something smells good."
"I thought you would sleep in; I wanted to surprise you!"
Tracey playfully tries to hide her work, but Patrick grins knowingly. He sneaks a taste, running a finger through the icing and licking it off.
"Mmm-mmm-mmm. Sweet and delicious, just like you," he quips, wrapping his arms around her waist and making her blush.
Tracey giggles and smiles. "Happy birthday, baby!"
Patrick gazes at her lovingly. "Speaking of..." he caresses her belly. "I promise I'll be at this doctor's appointment. Who can ask for a better birthday present?" he enthuses.
Tracey grinned. She was now entering her second trimester. Patrick felt horrible having missed the first part of her pregnancy but has been there for her since. All the literature told him the second trimester is, for many women, the least difficult three months of the pregnancy. He noticed the morning sickness and fatigue Tracey had been experiencing subsided. She seemed to be feeling better, and her energy was up. Patrick thought they should consider planning to prepare the nursery while Tracey feels well enough to do so. He knew the baby was developing quickly and would eventually be able to learn the sex unless they wanted it to be surprised, but they hadn't discussed that yet. Patrick caught his gaze lingering longer on two other developments and politely turned away. It was time Tracey went shopping for maternity clothes.
"Have you considered asking your mother to take you shopping?"
Tracey looked at him, confused, and then dismissed him. "I don't need any more clothes."
Patrick finished stirring the cream and sugar into his coffee before replying. He could tell she didn't understand what he was implying. He put it as delicately as he could.
"Sweetheart, there is more of you to love, and I believe you should have a wardrobe that compliments such."
Tracey slowly but surely comprehended. "Oh, I think I get it," she says bashfully. "I'll ask my mom to take me shopping after lunch."
Suddenly a car horn blared outside the residence. The couple exchanged puzzled looks. Patrick volunteered to investigate. To his astonishment and fear, it was Tracey's uncle. He parked his Canis Bodhi half in the driveway and half on the curb, leaving a tire tread impression on the grass.
"Trevor, right? Good morning..." greeted Patrick, curious about his presence. "What are you doing here?" As he came near, the vehicle, he noticed blood on the hood but thought better than to ask.
Trevor slammed his vehicle door shut. "Man, don't tell me you were too drunk to remember?"
Patrick struggled to recollect but honestly didn't want to admit that his memory failed him, fearful of Trevor's reaction. He decided to play along.
"Of course, I remember... we're going to go do the thing," Patrick fibbed; hoping Trevor would fill him in.
Trevor snapped with haste. "Let's go! I've got other shit to do today besides this!"
Patrick tentatively but willingly got in Trevor's vehicle and rode with him to an unknown destination. Trevor drove fast and dangerously through the residential neighborhood, narrowly missing the occasional pedestrian who barely managed to avoid getting run over by his speeding car. When they reached the highway, Trevor went way above the speed limit.
"Why are we going so fast? Where are we even going?" Patrick asked curiously.
Trevor didn't answer; he just increased his speed. To Patrick's surprise, they arrived outside a weapons store and gun range. He didn't dare ask what they were doing there. Patrick had never ventured into the gun store before. He tentatively followed Trevor inside the building. While looking around, Patrick was in awe and felt nervous about how many weapons were displayed. A man behind the counter greeted them. Trevor paid the fee, and then the guy behind the counter handed both a pair of protective glasses and earmuffs before directing them to the gun range in the back. Not so surprisingly, Michael was there too. Now it made sense Michael got his psychotic friend Trevor to recruit him, knowing Patrick wouldn't refuse. Patrick felt disgusted and deceived. Trevor grinned mischievously and left the other two men alone. Michael had already chosen a target. With a few practice shots, he aimed his pistol at the target and fired three times. His fourth shot hit the bull's eye. He laughed as though celebrating a victory.
Michael passed the gun to Patrick. "You should try to shoot."
He looked at him like he was crazy. "No way," Patrick protested. He shook his head vehemently.
"Just try it," Michael encouraged. "It's just target practice," he assured, "it's not like we're shooting people."
Patrick was reluctant to take the pistol, feeling uneasy as if he was taking on the devil. With shaky hands, Patrick aimed his gun at the target. He pulled the trigger slowly and carefully. When he realized he missed, he quickly tried again but still missed altogether and cursed under his breath. After four misses, finally, one bullet flew true and hit home squarely in the center of the target.
"Not bad," said Michael with approval.
Patrick looked up to meet his gaze and knew Michael was lying. He gave a sly smile, but Patrick didn't understand the point of this. When Patrick woke up this morning, this was not how he pictured spending his birthday.
Michael's plan to get his soon-to-be son-in-law at the gun range went accordingly; he watched, unimpressed at Patrick's pathetic attempt to shoot the targets. It was clear he'd never held a gun, let alone fired one. Patrick struggled to keep a steady hand while aiming at the target. He let his arm fall and gestured for Michael to take the gun from him.
"Here, I am not doing this," he said, shoving the weapon at Michael as if it were burning hot, "You're the professional."
Using a firearm was inconceivable to someone as pacifistic as Patrick. He knew Michael had some experience with firing a gun, and it scared him. Patrick frustratingly removed his protective eyeglasses and earmuffs and walked out of the range and store. Michael caught up with him in the parking lot. Patrick angrily searched for his vehicle but quickly remembered he didn't come here willingly.
"Yeah," remarked Michael, "you didn't drive here; Trevor brought you," he painfully reminded him. Patrick angrily glared at him. "You need to learn how to shoot," began Michael, but Patrick interjected.
"Why? What could I possibly accomplish by knowing how to shoot a gun?"
Michael didn't say anything but raised an eyebrow. His expression told Patrick all he needed to hear.
Michael sighed. "There comes a point in every man's life when he finds out what kind of man he is. Most young men aren't prepared to become fathers, so they try to avoid the issue as much as possible. You have a choice, though."
Patrick stared back in confusion. "What the hell does knowing how to shoot a gun have to do with me becoming a father?" he asked defensively.
Michael rolled his eyes. He held out his hand with the gun for Patrick to take, who didn't immediately take it. Patrick glanced at Michael with furrowed brows.
Michael gave him a pointed look; his voice was formidable. "Shooting a gun has everything to do with protecting what's yours. If you plan on marrying my daughter, I need to know you're able to protect her." Patrick blinked in shock. "Do you understand what I'm saying?" he continued quietly. Patrick nodded slowly.
At the end of Patrick's story, Tracey frowns. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears.
Patrick's heart sinks at her reaction. He knows he's disappointed her, adding to his sense of failure. "I'm sorry. I couldn't say, No." He looks at her, expression filled with regret. "Your father..."
Tracey cuts him off midsentence, deciding it's finally time to tell Patrick the truth. "My father wasn't always a movie producer. Before that, he was a retired bank robber."
Patrick stares at her in stunned silence, mouth slightly agape. He can see the hurt and truth in Tracey's eyes, reinforcing his sense of shame. "I...I didn't know. He never told me."
She feels deeply disappointed in her father for manipulating Patrick into going to the gun range. Part of her attraction to Patrick is that he's so opposite to her father; Michael is the physical type, while Patrick is an intellect. Tracey fears her father is trying to suck her fiancé into his criminal world by taking him to the gun range. She saw what happened when Michael took on Franklin as a protégé, and her father's influence over people scares her. Tracey wonders where the gun is, and Patrick explains that he put it in the glove box of his car. Sensing her dismay, he takes her hand in his, speaking gently.
"Tracey, look at me. I know what you're thinking. I'm not letting your father try to turn me into something I'm not."
She sniffles. "I hope you two would get along, but not like this."
Patrick looks at her, hurt. He sighs heavily, leaning back against the couch, trying to choose his words carefully.
"I'm not sure what you want me to say." He pauses and then makes a promise he intends to keep. "I will never bring a gun into this house." He tries to lighten the mood. "I'll get rid of it tomorrow. I'll sell it. I'll chuck it into the Los Santos River. I'll..."
Tracey stops crying and giggles, amused at his desperate suggestions of discarding the weapon.
"It's okay, I believe you." Feeling emotionally drained, she takes a deep breath and then glances at the clock on the wall, noting the late hour. "I'm going to bed. Are you coming?"
"In a while," comments Patrick, "There's something I have to do." He takes out his cell phone, composes a message, and reads it before pressing SEND.
It's late in the evening as Franklin cruises through the streets of South Los Santos in his Buffalo S, his pal Lamar Davis riding shotgun, rap music blaring through the speakers with the bass dropped low and the windows down. Franklin taps the brakes to stop at a light at an intersection, and Lamar asks him again what they're doing.
"Man, you can take the Negro out the hood, but you can't take the hood out the Negro; what we doing in South Los Santos? You complain I didn't move up in the world, and your ass is going back."
The light changes. Franklin shakes his head and scoffs.
"For the record, I ain't "back in the hood," I'm doing something for a friend."
Lamar smirks. "Oh, we're creeping," He claps his hands once and then rubs them together. "But which dude are we meeting? The sneaky dude or the creepy one?"
Franklin chuckles and pulls into the parking lot of the Cluckin' Bell. "Neither."
Lamar furrows his brows in confusion. "So, who are we meeting?"
Both men exit the car and stand outside the Cluckin' Bell. Franklin surveys the parking lot while Lamar stretches. A silver Intruder pulls in the lot, and a man exits the vehicle. Lamar's eyes narrow as he watches the professor-type guy step out of the Intruder. He looks over at Franklin, a skeptical expression on his face.
"You vouching for this dude, huh? He looks like he just stepped out of a textbook."
Franklin chuckles but gets serious as Patrick approaches. "Yo, we met before. I'm Franklin, and that's Lamar."
Lamar gives Patrick a nod of respect as he sizes him up, a smirk on his face. "What's good, Patrick? We go some business to discuss? I hope it involves cheddar 'cause I'm broke as hell."
Patrick smiles politely, disregarding Lamar's comment. "Thanks for meeting me here."
Franklin nods. "So what do you need? You skipped out on the details." He retrieves his cell phone from his pants pocket and scrolls through his messages, "All you said was, "Can you help me with a personal matter?" What personal matter, and how am I supposed to help?"
Lamar gets frustrated and feels confused. "Man, what about me? Why the hell am I even here? I don't even know this dude!" He looks at Patrick, "Uh, no offense."
Patrick shakes his head. "None taken. Sorry for the impromptu summons." He acts nervous and gingerly removes the gun from his pants. "I was wondering if you could help me dispose of this?"
Franklin and Lamar's eyes go wide, and they become slightly offended. Lamar's hand briefly goes to the pistol on his waist, eyes fixed on Patrick.
"Whoa!" remarks Franklin, backing up.
"Yo, man," states Lamar, "just because we black," he gestures to himself and Franklin, "you think we know how to dispose of a gun?"
Franklin restrains Lamar from walking up on Patrick. "Easy, he didn't mean anything racial by it...I hope."
"No, no," replies Patrick, feeling regretful for how his question came across. He attempts to backpedal. "I'm not asking because you're African American..." Patrick sighs heavily, stopping midsentence, fearing his explanation makes it worse.
Franklin releases Lamar as he cools down. Lamar scoffs, shaking his head at Patrick. "Man, speak for yourself. I'm all kinds of offended. You always sticking up for these white dudes, man."
Franklin gives Lamar a look to chill out. "He didn't mean no offense." He claps Patrick on the back, smiling, "I got you. It's all good." He holds up the gun. "Consider it done."
Satisfied with Franklin's words, Patrick, smiles, nods, and then hastily get in his car and drives off. Franklin and Lamar are left standing alone in the Cluckin' Bell parking lot.
Lamar looks at his friend, confused. "That's the type of dudes you hang out with owing favors?"
Franklins sighs, opening his car door, ready to leave. "Just get in. Are you coming or not?"
Lamar groans. "I sure as hell ain't walking," he quips.
Franklin laughs, then pulls out of the Cluckin' Bell lot. "Any ideas of how to get rid of the weapon?"
A sly grin spreads across Lamar's face. "I got a guy who can get rid of it quick, no questions asked."
Franklin scoffs, unimpressed. "Everyone you know is bad news. Who is it? Some sorry-ass street arms dealer?" He asks jokingly.
Lamar shoots him an unamused look. "Man, you always ragging on me. But, Nah, this ain't some street arms dealer." He smiles, speaking proudly, leaning back in the passenger seat. "This is my man, Ricky. He used to be in the military or something like that. I don't know. Anyway, hit the Los Santos Freeway and head out to the desert. He lives in Sandy Shores."
Franklin looks at Lamar in genuine surprise as he hits the highway. "Damn, the military? For real? How did you come into contact with someone like that?"
Lamar grins. "You know me, man. I know people. And Ricky, he owes me a favor or two. He's good people." He pulls out his phone and starts dialing. "I'll give him a call to set everything up."
