Ryan's Suffering

by Lloyd Paulson

  Joe Cool and SOB were silent on the subject.

  I pulled a heavily worn piece of paper from my wallet, and stared at the phone number. Fuck it. I dialed the number from my desk phone, listening to it ring. If I got his voice mail, I was going to hang up.

  "Ridenour."

  I sighed. I had been hoping it would go to voice mail. "Detective. It’s Ryan."

  There were several moments of awkward silence. "There’s nothing new, so I don’t know why you are calling. You come up with a more reasonable story, yet?"

  I leaned back in my chair, listening to the silence for a moment. SOB called him a cocksucker. "Detective, I’d tell you to kiss my ass, but you'd enjoy it too much. I’ve got another reason I’m calling. I wish I knew what happened—but the only story I ever had, you’ve heard."

  "And you had me committed for it, asshole," I thought. "I’ve got a goon rattling my cage up here, asking me questions, trying to figure out if I’m Ryan Vischer. Thought he might be one of yours. If you want me, you know how to find me."

  Silence stretched out into seconds, into the better part of a minute. Ye who speaks first loses.

  "Ryan, that case is a thorn in my side. You know damned well that I wish it never landed in my lap. It’s old news. Until your father pops up on the fucking radar, which doesn’t look likely, that file’s just gathering dust. That case needs to stay buried, and there isn’t anybody actively working it."

  I sighed. "Ever heard of the Harmon Group out of Bloomfield Hills, or a Thomas Burkes?"

  "Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell. Anything else you want to bother me with, or do you just miss me?"

  "Yeah, nothing but love for you. You tell anyone that my name was changed from Vischer to Turner?"

  "Nope. To be honest, I wish I had never met you. I never wanted this mess. It needs to stay buried. If someone found you, it’s your fucking problem. We’re done here, Ryan."

  The line went dead. I hung up the receiver and stared at the phone. Fuck you very much, too, Detective.

  I spent the remainder of the afternoon brooding and worrying, and made a half-ass attempt to accomplish some work. I needed to get through an endless pile of paperwork, but I couldn’t keep my mind focused. I kept returning to Tom, the Harmon Group, Jessica, Detective Ridenour, and that long ago night. There were no answers, only questions.

  After fucking off all afternoon and avoiding work, I headed home. I kept looking in the rearview, expecting to see Tom Burkes following me, probably in a beautiful little European sports car, but I never spotted him if he was tailing me.

  ~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~

  I pulled to a stop in the driveway of my house. I pulled the keys from the ignition and dropped them on the floor out of habit. As I opened the door of the car, I stopped, and looked down at the keys on the floor. I shuddered for a moment, thinking about Jessica Winters. I reached over, picked up the keys, and pocketed the keys as I stepped out of the car.

  I slammed the car door, turned and stumbled, my arms pin wheeling wildly as I struggled for balance. I lost the fight for balance and fell. "Goddamnit!"

  I stood back up, brushing myself angrily, glaring at the tricycle I had tripped over. I stomped over to it, and picked it up, and drew back to throw the tricycle down the driveway. However, Joe Cool spoke up. "That’s exactly what your father would do, fuckface."

  I stopped mid-throw, felt my cheeks redden in a flare of shame, and I set the tricycle down gently. What would I gain by destroying a child’s toy—the sick satisfaction of revenge on an inanimate object? Pointless violence and I’d have to go buy a new bike. Fuck it.

  I walked into the house, carefully closing the door with a soft click, instead of slamming it, forcing myself to breathe deeply.

  I turned, surveying the living room. No one was in the room. The TV was on, unwatched as it played a cartoon. I couldn’t hear the children over the sound of the TV. Near the TV, the floor was mostly clear, except for a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich lying on the carpet, next to a spilled glass of milk. Numerous crumbs, French fries, and popcorn were scattered across the floor, with several stains in the carpet. A couple flies buzzed lazily near the mess.

  I looked at the couch. My end of the couch was covered in trash again, despite having cleared it the night before. There was a half-eaten bag of chips spilled across my cushion. Several folded dirty diapers were stacked on the armrest. The coffee table in front of the couch was buried under a mountain of paper, magazines, empty food wrappers, and books. At Trish’s end of the couch, the coffee table held several half-empty glasses of various drinks. In one glass, milk had congealed into a white lump floating in murky liquid. Another glass had a thick skim of mold over a dark, unidentifiable liquid. I felt the anger start to rise again, and I shoved it back down.

  I stepped gingerly past the pile of shoes in front of the door, and worked my way across the living room, fighting the urge to kick, break, and smash toys out of my way as I went. I found myself thinking of my father’s fanatic devotion to cleanliness, and the absolute tyranny with which he enforced it. Joe Cool muttered I wasn’t much like my father in that respect. I asked him to explain the rising anger within me then, but he ignored me.

  I felt helplessness overwhelm me as I stepped into the kitchen, knowing what I would find, but unable to prevent my jaw from clenching as I looked around, my temples thudding dully.

  Flies were buzzing heavily in the kitchen in thick clouds. The table, which Trish had cleared last night after dinner while I was outside in the backyard, was covered again: a half-eaten bowl of spaghetti, cereal spilled across the table and a scattering of apple slices that had turned brown and shriveled slightly.

  I walked over to the stove, which had several pots stacked precariously on one side. A covered pan sat on the front burner. I lifted the cover, and frowned at the squirming maggots writhing underneath. I set the lid on top of the pile of pots, and grabbed the handle of the pan. I turned towards the garbage can, and stopped.

  The trashcan overflowed, and reeked of rotting food. Flies crawled vigorously over the garbage at the top of the can. Several bags of garbage surrounded the garbage can. I sighed, and dropped the pan heavily on the stove. Maggots spilled out, and squirmed on the grease-splattered stovetop.

  "You don’t take out the garbage anymore," Trish said from behind me.

  I sighed, and turned. Apparently, it was going to be one of those days. Last night, and even this morning, she was treating me halfway decent. Now she wasn’t. Joe asked me what changed. Fuck if I know, I thought.

  She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe. She had folded her arms tightly against her chest, and her brow was creased. I looked at the back door, vaguely wondering why it was my fucking job—I worked, she didn’t. Joe Cool told me to stop being petulant. It was only three feet from the back door to the garbage can at the end of the steps.

  I looked back at her, blankly, feeling my anger boiling beneath the surface. I quashed the anger, and crushed down the garbage inside the can and removed the bag, dropping it next to the other bags on the floor.

  Trish walked into the kitchen, pulled out a chair, and sat down. She frowned at me, openly hostile, as I opened the back door and set all the full garbage bags outside, my face deliberately neutral.

  "You’re a fucking asshole," she said from the table.

  I closed the backdoor with a gentle click. SOB muttered to hell with her. I ignored him, wondering why Trish was openly hostile. Joe Cool said this was definitely a new development. Anger and resentment was familiar. Open hostility was new. I told Joe cool that he could suck my cock. Better yet, gag on it. Preferably while SOB was balls deep in him at the same time.

  I leaned back against the stove, and crossed my arms, regarding Trish for a minute before speaking in what I hoped was a calm and reasonable tone of voice. "So now I’m an asshole?"

  She sighed, and lit a cigarette, ignoring the question. She looked around the kitchen, pointedly not looking at me. "You�
��re a fucking liar, too."

  I watched her for several minutes, as she puffed away on the cigarette, tapping ashes into the congealing bowl of spaghetti. "I’m a liar?"

  She nodded. Joe told me to knock it off, and said I sounded like a fucking parrot, repeating every statement Trish made as a question. SOB asked me what I was trying to accomplish. I told them I didn’t know, but I wasn’t expecting a hostile home environment tonight. JC laughed at me. I told him to knock it off; his sarcasm wasn’t helping a goddamned thing.

  She stood up, her chair grating against the vinyl tiles. "Yes, you’re an asshole and a liar." She glared at me; teeth clenched, then turned and left the room.

  I started to go after her, wondering what she thought I had done now, when Joe asked me what I was going to say to her at this point. I stopped next to the table, staring down at the pack of cigarettes and lighter she had left there. I conceded Joe’s point, and asked him what he thought she was pissed at. SOB cackled wildly and said you, dumbass. Both Joe and I told him to shut the fuck up, and I walked out to the living room.

  Trish sat on her end of the couch, staring at the TV screen. She didn’t look up at me as I stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

  "Where’s the kids?"

  Trish didn’t look up at me. "At my mother’s."

  Joe Cool told me that might explain the problem. SOB piped in, telling me that her mom hated my guts. I told him the feeling was fucking mutual, so that's settled, and I stepped in the living room.

  She glanced up at me, her eye flaring wide open. "Stay the fuck away from me."

  I stopped, uncertain. "Are you gonna clue me in, or do I have to play fucking guessing games to figure out why you’re so pissed off?" Joe Cool told me to dial it back a few notches. I understood his point, raising my voice wasn’t going to do anything but piss her off more. Of course, that’s what she wanted. Free vindication. She could claim she was being perfectly reasonable, but that I became an unreasonable asshole, just like always. Joe Cool had a point. Don’t give her the fucking satisfaction, and keep my goddamned mouth shut.

  However, I didn't like being jerked around like a marionette handled by hallucinating drug addict on speed. It wasn't fair, when someone knew exactly what buttons to push to wind you up for maximum effect in the shortest time, but that’s the nature of relationships.

  She looked up at me, and SOB pointed out that it was already too late. She stood up with an air of finality, and advanced at a quick pace, her hands clenched in fists at her sides. "I already told you. You’re an asshole, and a fucking liar."

  I kept my voice even and as reasonable as possible." Well, then, what do you think I lied about?"

  She picked up a book off the coffee table and threw it at me. I ducked, and it fluttered past me as she started yelling. "Don’t play Mr. Calm, Cold, and Calculating with me. You won’t talk to me anymore, you always try to act so…so rigid, so unfeeling, and it’s as if…it’s as if I’m living with a goddamned computer with no personality. I try to live with that, try to adjust, try to get you to open up to me…and then…and then it turns out your whole, your whole fucking life is a, is one goddamned fucking lie!" She burst into tears, and I watched as she fled up the stairs, braying sobs. I winced, anticipating and waiting for the slam of the bedroom door, but it didn’t happen.

  Joe Cool and SOB were strangely silent. I expected him to make a comment. "What's the matter Joe? Got a dick stuck in your mouth?" However, even that didn't get a rise from him.

  I walked over to the book, picked it up off the floor and carried it back over to the coffee table, and stared around the living room. I had no idea what to do next. Abso-fucking-lutely no idea what so-fucking-ever.

  Absently, I walked over and shut off the TV set. I cocked an ear, but couldn’t hear anything from upstairs.

  I started toward the stairs then stopped. Trish was sitting on the top step, staring sullenly at me, her hands clasped beneath her chin, her elbows on her knees. "Your name’s not Ryan Turner. It’s Ryan Vischer."

  I was unsurprised by her statement. There was only one possible answer. Mr. Call-me-fucking-Tom Burkes had stopped by, apparently. I took a few steps towards the stairs, and leaned on the railing." I had it changed by the court. My legal name is Turner."

  Her eyes flared for a moment. "Liar. There’s no record of it. They have to publish a notice. It’s a legal proceeding."

  I watched her, patiently, until the harsh light subsided from her eyes. "It’s a sealed record. It's an ongoing investigation, for Christ's sake."

  She stood up, and glared at me. "Even if that’s true, you’re still an asshole and a lying sack of shit." She turned, and disappeared down the hallway.

  I slumped my shoulders, and sat down heavily on the couch. I stared at the blank TV screen. I had no idea how to explain this to her in a way that would make sense.

  Fifteen minutes later, she walked down the stairway, and stopped. I could feel her eyes on me, and I looked up. Her purse was slung over her shoulder, and she held her keys in her hand. I controlled my breathing, and said nothing.

  She brushed her hair away from her forehead impatiently. "I don’t know you. I don’t know if I ever did. Fucking family full of psychotic freaks, and you're just as fucking bad. You're probably the psycho who committed all those…did all those things, and you're probably the one doing all those things now with those kids around here. You get the fuck out of this house before me and the kids come back. Never found what you did to your dad. That's fucking bullshit. Get lost. Forever."

  I watched from the couch, silent, as she turned and walked out the front door, slamming it behind her.

  I heard her call out one last time as she started the car. "Get lost, you fucking FREAK!" Then I heard gravel squirting out from under the tires as she tore out of the driveway at a reckless speed.

  I waited several minutes for the tears to come, but they wouldn’t. Joe Cool and SOB were also silent. I felt numb, and told them both to go fuck themselves. Some fucking help they were.

  I stood up, sighed, fished in my pocket for my keys, and walked out the front door, slamming it behind me. Joe Cool told me slamming the fucking door's the same crap my father would do, so I blew the front window out of the door with my fist. Fuck you, Joe Cool. Keep your goddamned mouth shut.

  SOB cackled wildly at him. "Betcha didn't see that coming!"

  Both of us told him to shut the fuck up, and I stomped off down the porch with my keys in my hand.

  Dance of the Pigs

  "People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf." ― George Orwell

  I started to accelerate, but I realized the light was red at the same time a horn honked, and I cringed at the scream of the honking horn. Scared shitless, I stomped on the brakes with both feet. Sarcastically, I told Joe Cool he was doing an awesome fucking job helping me out here. SOB called me an asshole, and mentally I protested it was Joe’s job and they could both go bugger each other.

  Sheepishly, I stared at the light, until it turned green. As I started to drive away, I watched a police cruiser u-turn and flip on the overhead lights. All three of us muttered, "Uh-oh," inside my head at the same time. I pulled over onto the shoulder as I rolled down the window, muttering to myself.

  We watched in resigned fate as the officer stepped out of his cruiser, and walked along the edge of the road towards my car. I could see his hand placed on the butt of his gun as he approached.

  Joe Cool told SOB to keep his fucking mouth shut, and we may get out of this with a warning. I disagreed. The way things were going there would be no such luck. I powered down the window and placed my hands at ten and two on the steering wheel.

  "License, registration, and proof of insurance, sir."

  I looked up at the cop. "My license is in my wallet, and the other stuff is in the glove box."

  The cop nodded and said nothing.

  I started to reach over for the glove compartment. I hea
rd an incoherent report come through his radio, indistinct but excited. As my hand reached the glove box knob, I heard a click, and I glanced back at the cop. I froze, and I think SOB shit his pants inside my head. While I contemplated the gun barrel pointing at my head, blinking stupidly, I told SOB he better clean up his fucking mess.

  In my head, Joe Cool muttered, "What the fuck?"

  The officer had stepped back from the vehicle. "Nice and easy, sir. Put your hands out the window."

  I sat up, and reached out the window, with my palms facing out.

  "Open the door from the outside, step out, and keep your hands where I can see them."

  I reached down, and opened the door. As I stood up, I watched Mrs. Cranston drive by, my elderly neighbor with the annoying-ass cat that can’t leave my fucking shingles alone on the garage. She was gawking with her mouth hanging open as she literally creeped by in her old Buick.

  Great. Now everyone in the neighborhood hear about the cop that was having me step out of my car at gunpoint, and want to know why. Sometimes you have to hate the coziness of smaller towns.

  SOB muttered, "What the fuck is this happy horse shit?"

  Joe Cool muttered that he’d like to know the answer to that question as well. SOB laughed way too hysterically, and I wondered what was so fucking funny about this.

  "Turn around, and place your hands on the roof of the car."

  I turned, and put my hands on the roof. "What’s this about, officer?"

  My car was painted black and the sheet metal was hotter than hell in the late afternoon sun. I wanted to jerk my hands away, but Joe Cool told me sudden movements were not a bright idea at that particular moment. I decided listening to Joe’s advice was currently in my best interest.

  The cop kicked my legs apart, and hissed in my ear. "Where’s the kids at, asshole?"