by Trisky
What little of it he has left that is. He lost most of it a long time ago. Right around the same moment he decided life with me would be a good risk to take. Not fucking likely! He insists that he knows what he's doing and doesn't need me to explain or demonstrate... repeatedly... what a mistake that particular choice was. If he wants to take those kinds of chances, I'm not going to keep the gun from his head when he's playing Russian Roulette. I just have to remember to empty the bullets from the barrel before he starts firing. That's easier said than done.
Finally, after what seems like the longest drive of my entire life, we turn the corner towards the Muncher Manse of Mirth. I can see bodies milling about in the windows of the house from halfway down the block. It's like watching someone else's life, from the sidewalk, safe and warm inside, some place I shouldn't be allowed. I should always be on the outside looking in. I see Gus' nearly abandoned swing set in the backyard as we approach the house in silence. It's getting a little corroded, spots of rust appearing on the corners, weathered down from the harsh Pitts winters. I was no help in putting it together and certainly no help in maintaining it. Why bother? He never took much interest in it, beyond it's initial new toy glean. It's just taking up space these days. One day it'll just erode until it's nothing but flakes of metal scattered in the yard and no one will even notice.
Maybe Justin is right, maybe it wouldn't be that difficult to leave certain things behind. Everyone would still be safe and content in their lives. The lives they've built for themselves behind closed doors. Maybe it's better to leave before you become just a passing stranger.
He kills the engine a little further down the block than I thought he would, even though there's a space closer to the house. I undo my seatbelt, expecting him to do the same, but he doesn't move an inch.
"Are you coming?"
"I'll meet you inside." He stares straight ahead, both hands on the wheel, as if he might make a getaway the moment I exit the car.
"Nice... leave me to face the she-wolves alone to get ripped to pieces. You're not getting away that easy. I need your boyish charm to help get me out of this one. C'mon let's go." I command as I reach for the handle of the door and still he makes no movement.
"Go. I'll be there in a minute. I promise." Well at least I know he's not planning on taking off for parts unknown. When Justin promises something, it's as close to a blood oath as I'm going to get.
"Please don't tell me you're having another fucking breakdown. Even *you* can't be that ridiculous," I chide him. I expect a sneer, a roll of the eyes, anything. All I get are two very focused, very hard eyes staring at the street in front of him. "What are you waiting for?"
As soon as I ask the question, I see the answer, about ten yards in front of us. A little rust-colored head looks back and forth for oncoming traffic before making the trip across the street. She's like a little lady, her head held high, taking perfect, careful steps. Her small hands hold an awkwardly shaped gift wrapped package. She looks back, just once, before continuing on to the front door.
"There's Molly," he mumbles to himself.
"I kind of figured that out on my own. Thanks." He doesn't even notice my bait dangling right in front of him. "I thought she wasn't coming to this party, no kids and all?"
"She's not. She wanted to drop my gift off yesterday, but since I was sick my mother said she would bring it for her. My mom must have forgotten to take it."
"So? What's the big deal? Don't you want to see your sister? She went to all the trouble to bring you your present. And don't tell me you don't care about presents." At that, he gives me the slightest of reactions, barely shifting his eyes heavenward for the strength to carry on. I might not be handy with a swing set, but I sure as hell know how to handle a hammer.
"I'm not getting out of this car." I follow his fixated gaze towards a double parked, four door, sensible family car. Right towards the biggest disgrace to the concept of family, this side of Jack fucking Kinney.
"Don't let him do this to you..." I know he already has.
"God, do you know the kind of tantrum Molly must have thrown to get him to drive her here to drop that off? I can hear him now," he gets a twisted grin on his face, "'I'm not letting my daughter near that house of perversion.' He can't even get out of the car. He must really hate me."
"It's his loss. Besides... he doesn't hate you." I shrug my shoulders and feel my head nodding to reaffirm the thought.
"How do you figure *that*?" he asks, skeptically.
"You're his son, that doesn't just go away, isn't that something you've tried to drill into my head over and over again?" I offer, as if it really is just that simple. We both know it's not, and I can feel my lungs squeeze together tightly as I wait for him to refute the thought.
"Maybe you're right, maybe he doesn't hate me. But he doesn't even care and that's, like, a thousand times worse." He speaks from the voice of experience, long fought and hard earned experience. "I'd rather he hate me."
I'm almost afraid to ask. "Why?"
"Because the opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference, right? At least if he hated me now, I'd know it's because he used to love me once." That tells me so much more than I ever wanted to know. So much more than I want to think about at the moment. I'd rather concentrate on puncturing Craig's eyeball with my hammer and a rusty nail.
Every. Time. Every. Single. Time. It doesn't matter how many months, how many years now, go by. The wound just scabs over until the itch becomes unbearable and he peels it off and starts bleeding all over again.
"Forget him. He's not worth it." Like he's forgotten you. Bastard. "Let's just go inside. Everybody is waiting for us."
"He's my father Brian." For him, it's just that simple. It's why he lets himself get hurt over and over again, by people he should be protecting himself from. I'd like nothing more than to just hate Craig, but owing him some sick debt of gratitude for the example he's set prevents me from doing that. If he can't even hate his father, it's next to impossible to imagine him ever really hating me.
The thought that he could one day learn Craig's indifference isn't one I want to dwell on. The thought that he could learn it from me is even less of one.
"So then go knock on the window and say hi and invite him over for tea and scones. Do whatever the fuck you want. I'm going inside." I huff and puff and blow my passenger door open, a cold gust of wind hitting my profile. I don't really mean it, he knows I don't mean it, at least I think he does. But I won't indulge this particular pity party. He's had more than enough for one day and they far exceeded my limitations about two hours ago.
And I just don't know what to say or do to make this hurt any less.
I take my time fiddling with the seatbelt, waiting for the string of expletives to escape his mouth. Sometimes I rile him up on purpose, because I know how easy it is for him to slide into inaction when things get to be too much for him. He feels comfortable there. First he goes silent and then he just goes away. Crawls into himself, into his art, into whatever route that lets him escape quickly and easily. That's still the worst part about the whole thing. He got his hand back slowly and surely, but the fight in him was permanently changed, and not for the better.
If it were up to him, he'd just stay immobile and unnoticed. I won't let him do that. Won't let him decay into corroded flakes floating in the wind right in front of my eyes.
I climb out of the jeep and stretch my legs. It's dusk now but I can feel Craig's beady eyes from 30 feet and opposite sides of the street travel along my spine. I'm sure this was exactly what he was trying to avoid. Well fuck him. I lean my hands on the roof of the car and duck my head into the open space, prepared to physically drag him out if necessary. "Stop acting like a fucking child. Open the door, get out of the car and show him the kind of man you've become. Show him who he's missed out on knowing." I *will* *not* let him do this.
I'm stopped by the stricken look on his face. He looks almost as pale as he did when he walked in the door the other night. Only I know it's not a virus that's causing this, it's the exceptionally brilliant way I go about handling him. Maybe Justin has the right idea about a lot of things. I watch him hesitate before he reaches for the seatbelt that ties him to his seat. He gets as far as undoing it. It's a step in the right direction at least.
"Let me just wait until he leaves," he suggests. "I want to enjoy this birthday. I don't want him to ruin it for me."
"He can't if you don't let him. Besides, Molly is going to walk back out of that house soon. The minute she sees me, she's going to head straight to you. You can't avoid this. No matter how much you might want to."
And I know he does. He's a tough kid, he can withstand a lot and still stand tall, if a little weathered and rusted from the beating. He shouldn't have to, but he can. Sometimes he just doesn't want to, and I don't blame him for that. You shouldn't have to fight so hard for every little scrap.
You really shouldn't. No one should.
"Why did you let me think my father wanted to help support me all that time?"
Ouch. I can feel the blister of pain from that particular scab being pulled again. Not one of my finer mistakes. If he didn't hate me after finding out about that stunt, I'm fairly certain there's not much else I could do to make him hate me. Except break his heart. Which I may or may not be succeeding at avoiding, depending on the time of day. "Because that's what you wanted to believe."
"You know I don't buy that. I never have. You don't do things just because I want them. You don't do *anything* just because it's something someone wants." There's no recrimination or bitterness in that statement. It's just fact. I'm not easy. He knows that and he stays anyway. Maybe I misjudged, maybe there's fight left in him, yet. "You did it because you know what it feels like to want a father who doesn't want you. In your own stupid, fucked up way, you didn't want me to feel like that. It took me a while to figure that out."
He thinks he has it *all* figured out. He probably does. "What's your point? That's not moving your ass out of this car any quicker."
"My point is you can stop protecting me. I know what you're doing and I appreciate it, but it's not necessary. I'm not going to fall apart because he's across the street. I just don't want to deal with him today."
I almost believe him. I think he almost believes it himself. But I know him, no matter what anyone else might think, I know all of him. I can see the tension on his face and the false smile pretending to be okay with this, pretending to be stronger than he actually feels. It's the lying to yourself part that gets you in trouble every time. You can lie to everyone else and most people will probably believe you, because they want to. It helps keep their perspective in line. But lying to yourself? That's a problem.
"Look it's freezing, and I can't go in there without you..." I start and stop when I realize he's already tuned me out. I guess I could try a new tact. "Justin look at me." He does so reluctantly. "Leave him there... come in with me."
I won't break your heart.
He takes a deep breath inwards and elbows the driver's door open, his entire left side slumps against the cold metal. His eyes follow his feet, never once looking in any other direction as he closes the door and sets the alarm. The sound seems to shock him out of his halting steps because he lifts his head and stares straight down the block, taking more certain steps around the car, stopping when he reaches the sidewalk. He doesn't lift his foot to step up, a brief flash of panic splays across his features.
I reach my hand out instinctively and he finds it with his own, without hesitation, without fear.
We walk towards the door, together, hand in hand. Side by side.