The Tragedy of Dane Riley

by Kat Spears

  “Just get her a blanket or something,” Eric says, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb.

  “Dude, stop helping,” Joe says. “You’re fucking useless.”

  “She looks hilarious,” Eric says as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and holds it up to take a picture of Ophelia, passed out on the bathroom floor. Without thinking, I slap Eric’s hand and his phone clatters into the sink.

  “What the hell?” Eric shouts at me.

  “You’re not taking a picture of her,” I say as I take a menacing step toward him.

  “Oh, what are you going to do?” Eric asks. He picks up his phone but instead of trying to take a picture again he just puts the phone back into his pocket.

  I am so angry right then that I am almost able to forget that I have never been in a fight before. Not one where I threw any actual punches, anyway. I have never hit another person in the face. But Joe, who has been in plenty of fights to compensate for his size, steps between us and pushes Eric out the door.

  Once Eric is out Joe pushes in the lock and leans his weight against the door. Eric hits the door once with his fist, but then we hear him move away down the hall.

  Joe and I both look at Ophelia, unconscious on the bathroom floor, as we consider our next move. Only Eric would leave a person to fend for themselves in Ophelia’s condition, but there is no way we can carry her to the car without damaging her body or her dignity, so we take turns patting her cheeks and calling her name until she is conscious again. Now she is awake, but there is still no way she is going to execute a clean entrance at home.

  I run a washcloth under warm water and clean her up as best I can, wiping her face and hands. “You’ll be okay,” I say, maybe trying to reassure both of us.

  Joe and Harry help me get Ophelia to the Mercedes and I am grateful that they are the kind of friends who don’t complain about helping her even though it means touching her puke. I drop the guys off at Joe’s house.

  On the drive home I keep looking at Ophelia in the passenger seat, wishing I could make conversation, but she is completely out of it.

  I park the Mercedes on the street at the end of the driveway and switch off the engine. Ophelia is snoring softly but at least she seems to just be sleeping instead of in a coma.

  “Shit,” I say to myself, and wish Joe was still with me.

  Getting Ophelia up the length of the driveway is, as predicted, a nightmare. She keeps stopping and sinking down to the ground, as if she wants to curl up and sleep in the mulched beds.

  “Please walk,” I keep saying, begging her. “It’s bad enough that your dad has probably heard us and has my head in a rifle scope right now.”

  “I’m cool,” she keeps saying, in that way that drunk people do when they are anything but cool.

  When we finally reach the front porch I still haven’t decided what to do. I debate whether I should just put her on the porch swing, ring the doorbell, and run, or if I should ring the doorbell, wait for her dad, and pretend like I just found her at the end of the driveway.

  Either way, truth or not, I am the hero of this story. Though maybe that isn’t the way Ophelia’s dad will see it.

  In the end I am denied the choice. Just as we reach the porch, the front door flies open and Colonel Marcus stands in the open doorway in a blue velour bathrobe and white athletic socks. I am grateful to not be staring down the barrel of a rifle, but even in a robe and socks, Colonel Marcus is a terrifying figure. He’s four inches taller and can probably bench press my body weight.

  “You have exactly three seconds to explain what the hell is going on here,” Colonel Marcus says.

  “Uh…” Three seconds. I can’t decide what is the most important point to make if I only have three seconds. “I just found her and brought her home,” I say quickly.

  “Hi, Dad,” Ophelia says. So useless. And her drunk speak makes Colonel Marcus even angrier. He’s staring at her arm, which is draped around my neck.

  “Ophelia,” he says, “get yourself up to your room. I’ll be up there to talk to you in a minute.”

  “Dad, listen, it’s not Dane’s fault,” Ophelia says. “Don’t be mad at him, okay?”

  “What are you still doing here?” he asks her, and the way he says it, a chill slithers from my scalp to my scrotum, and I feel suddenly like I have to pee. “I said”—his voice slows to a crawl, each letter its own syllable—“get up to your room.”

  Ophelia shoves off me in her first effort to stand under her own power and tries to walk through the doorway past her dad, but she is still so drunk that she bounces like a pinball off of him and the doorframe and then the table just inside the front door. Colonel Marcus and I both watch, I in horror, he in anger, as she staggers her way to the stairs and hangs onto the bannister like a life preserver. Her skirt is so short that it rides up in the back as she’s climbing the stairs, and her underwear is practically visible. Colonel Marcus’s head snaps around as he looks at me to see if I’m noticing Ophelia’s short skirt. It’s like a scene from a horror movie, and he’s just discovered that I am the killer.

  “If I find out you were up to any funny business, I’ll be calling the police,” Colonel Marcus says. “At the very least I’ll be speaking to your mom tomorrow.”

  “Honestly, sir,” I say quickly, “I just picked her up from a party and she was really drunk so I brought her home, to make sure nothing happened to her.”

  Colonel Marcus’s eyes narrow to slits and he leans minutely, almost imperceptibly, toward me. “Boy, how stupid do you think I am?”

  “I don’t! I mean, not stupid at all. I’m telling you. I wasn’t even at this party and—”

  “What the hell is that smell?” he asks, ignoring my story, which isn’t shaping up to make a whole lot of sense anyway.

  “It’s vomit, sir.”

  “Your vomit?”

  “No, sir. I haven’t been drinking. Honestly. It’s … uh … it’s Ophelia’s vomit. She threw up on me.”

  “If I catch you around my daughter again, I will kill you. I will kill you and they will need your dental records to identify the body. You get me?”

  “I totally get you, sir.” I have more to say but he slams the door in my face before I can get the second syllable of “totally” out of my mouth.

  * * *

  Mom hardly ever ventures upstairs in our house, so when she knocks on my bedroom door the next morning, I know immediately that Colonel Marcus has followed through on his threat/promise to visit. The look on Mom’s face isn’t as angry as I’d expect it to be and when we get downstairs I am surprised to find both Colonel Marcus and Ophelia in the kitchen. Ophelia sits at the island counter in one of the tall stools. Her eyes are red and watery and a large bottle of Gatorade, half empty, sits on the counter in front of her. Her hair, still damp from a shower, is knotted haphazardly at the base of her neck. Even from six paces, I can smell the alcohol, rising with the heat from her pores. The fact that she is still beautiful in her hungover state is at once shocking and evidence that I will never be cured of loving her.

  By contrast, you wouldn’t know that Colonel Marcus was awake at 1:00 A.M. to look at him. His shoes are polished, his collar starched, and his judgment of me is cool as ice.

  “Hey, Dane,” Ophelia says.

  “Uh … hi.” I glance at Colonel Marcus to make sure I’m not violating some protocol.

  “I explained to my dad about what happened last night,” Ophelia says as she spins the tall stool to angle her body in my direction. “That I drank at that party and called you to come and get me.”

  “Oh?” It comes out sounding like a question, but I hope no one else notices that fact.

  I keep my gaze locked on Ophelia’s face, afraid that if I exchange a look with Mom or Colonel Marcus, they will plainly read the fear on my face and misinterpret it as a lie. “I just wanted to apologize for getting you mixed up in the whole mess,” Ophelia says.

  “It’s cool,” I say.

  “Dane, wh
ere were you last night?” Mom asks. Her tone is hard, but Mom doesn’t scare me. It’s not as if I can be any more of a disappointment to her than I already am.

  “Well, I was at work,” I say, easing into it, “then I was just hanging out with the guys. We were skating in the park when Ophelia texted me.”

  “Do you still have the text in your phone?” Colonel Marcus asks.

  “Do you have a warrant?” I speak without thinking, forgetting to be afraid.

  Ophelia is still facing me so I am the only one who sees her eyes widen and a smile lift the corners of her mouth.

  “I apologize for my son,” Mom says to Colonel Marcus. “He has this idea that he’s hilarious.”

  Mom is acting pretty cool right now, but as soon as Colonel Marcus and Ophelia are gone, I expect her to start threatening me with the usual punishments—take away phone privileges, or take the keys to the Mercedes.

  Whatever. It’s only a few weeks until graduation and my eighteenth birthday, and I already have a limited interest in being alive. I’m untouchable.

  “Yeah,” Colonel Marcus says. “I can see that.”

  “Dane didn’t do anything,” Ophelia says, “except help me out. He got me home safely.” Ophelia is speaking to Mom and her dad, but she is looking at me as she says it. A warmth spreads from my toes all the way to my scalp. An inside warmth. The kind of warmth I only feel around Ophelia.

  “Are you sure she didn’t ride with you to that party?” Colonel Marcus asks me.

  “Positive,” I say, deciding then that if I’m going down, I’m taking Eric with me. “She went with Eric, but he wanted to leave her there to sleep it off.”

  Ophelia’s eyes close as Chuck and Mom start to splutter.

  “What are you talking about?” Chuck asks as Colonel Marcus turns his surprised anger in Chuck’s direction.

  “Eric was there,” I say, and then I suggest helpfully, “you should ask him what happened. He drove Ophelia to the party. He left her there, so I brought her home.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Eric,” Chuck says weakly as we are all thinking the same thing—that it sounds exactly like Eric.

  Mom’s expression is apologetic. She knows what it’s like to have a kid who is a disappointment.

  “Well, I’m glad Ophelia got home safely,” Mom says. “It sounds like all’s well that ends well.”

  Colonel Marcus is clearly not appeased by Mom or her bank-teller smile.

  “Do you know where your son was last night?” he asks Chuck.

  “Well … no,” Chuck says, and I enjoy watching him squirm under Colonel Marcus’s accusing stare. Colonel Marcus can definitely take Chuck in a fight, and I would pay money to see it. “Eric lives with his mother. He only stays here occasionally.”

  “It sounds like you should keep better tabs on him,” Colonel Marcus says. I’m really enjoying the scene now that the focus has shifted away from me and it’s Eric and Chuck who are the bad guys.

  “Eric has always been something of a … free spirit,” Chuck says. If Eric was poor, he’d be a juvenile delinquent. Rich, he’s a free spirit.

  “Well,” Colonel Marcus says, “Ophelia can’t be hanging around people who are attending parties where there is alcohol. I appreciate that Dane brought her home. At the very least he had the courage to do the right thing, which it sounds like this Eric hasn’t been raised to do.”

  “Now, wait a minute.…” Chuck says, but Colonel Marcus is taking Ophelia’s arm and tugging her off the kitchen stool.

  Thanks a lot, Ophelia mouths in my direction.

  “Ophelia, you will be grounded until graduation,” Colonel Marcus says.

  “That’s not fair!” Ophelia says, raising her voice for the first time. “Prom is in two weeks. And the senior class trip.”

  “I guess you should have thought of that before you decided to go out drinking.”

  “Sir,” I say, “last night was a fluke. Everybody at school knows Ophelia is a total nerd. She’s a really good student. Grounding her until graduation seems harsh.”

  “And I’ll be taking away her phone,” Colonel Marcus says, as if I haven’t said a word, “so you don’t have to worry about any more midnight calls from her in a drunken state. You don’t have to worry about any calls or messages … at all.” His last words are weighted for Ophelia’s benefit as he keeps his hand on her arm and pulls her to the door.

  Mom and Chuck are both staring at me as we listen to the front door shut firmly. “What?” I ask. “For once, I’m not the bad guy. I only did what was right.” I exit before they can say another word.

  * * *

  When I get home from work that evening Eric’s car is in the driveway and lights are burning in every window of the house.

  “Shit,” I say out loud to myself on a sigh and rest my forehead against the steering wheel. I want to leave. I want to have someplace to go that is mine and where no one can bother me. As I make my way up the front walk all I can think about is leaving. Just get back in the Mercedes and drive. Somewhere. I have contemplated running away as many times as I’ve contemplated killing myself. And, as with death, my main worry is that there’s really no place to go.

  From just inside the front door I can hear raised voices coming from the kitchen. Eric’s voice is the loudest but Chuck’s voice is unnaturally deep as he tries to command the conversation.

  When I walk into the kitchen they both go silent and turn to look at me. Eric’s eyes burn with hatred, but Chuck just looks tired.

  “What the hell?” Eric says, glowering at me. “Goddamn crybaby tattletale.”

  “What are you? Five?” I ask.

  “What did you tell people that I did?” Eric asks.

  “Eric,” Chuck says, “that’s enough.”

  “I told them the truth,” I say, ignoring Chuck. “I told Ophelia’s dad you drove her to the party. I showed up later to clean up your mess.”

  “Like you’re some kind of saint,” Eric says. “You drink, get high, hang out with your ghetto friends.”

  “Get out of my house,” I say quietly, but it’s a dangerous kind of quiet. I can feel the anger building, like the coyote’s funeral pyre. The anger is there and it’s ready to burn out of control.

  “Dane, it’s okay,” Chuck says, dismissing me, as if I am nothing. To Eric he says, “Do you deny that you took that girl to that party? Deny that you were going to leave her there when she was drunk and insensible and couldn’t take care of herself?”

  “It’s not okay,” I say, but my voice is still quiet and they don’t even hear me. They just keep arguing and aren’t really paying attention to me. I’m a ghost in my own house.

  “I gave her a ride,” Eric says. “So what? I barely even know her. It’s not like she was my responsibility.”

  “Get out of my house,” I say again, testing my voice at a new volume. Not quite a shout, but louder and deeper than it usually sounds.

  They are still arguing, their voices raised with their meaningless irritation.

  “Get out!” There. I am shouting now and they both turn to look at me, their faces masks of surprise. Everyone is accustomed to the Dane who mopes through life. The Dane who is pathetic and sad and hopeless. But I can’t stand another moment of them, treading on my life, my privacy, my sanity.

  “Get out of my house! This is my house. My dad’s house. It’s not your fucking house! If you want to scream at each other, do it someplace else.”

  Mom comes running out of the first-floor bedroom at the sound of my voice.

  “Dane, I’m sorry,” Chuck says. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He looks as if he’s ready to cry, an antelope caught between a lion and a hyena.

  “Dane,” Mom says, coming to put her hands on my arms, as if to keep me from flying into a million pieces. “That’s enough, Dane. Stop shouting.”

  “You’re nothing to me,” I say, spittle shooting onto my lower lip as I scream at Chuck and Eric, even as Mom holds my arms. “Both of you. Do you hear m
e? You’re nothing. Get the fuck out!”

  “Please calm down,” Chuck says. He’s holding his hands up as if to ward off a blow.

  “Out!” The single syllable stretches to eternity as I squeeze my eyes shut and I can feel the scream travel through every molecule of my body.

  I am surprised to find that after that scream, I feel better. From the looks on everyone else’s faces, they feel worse. But I feel better.

  Chuck leaves the room without another word but he is back in a moment with his laptop bag and another larger bag.

  “You don’t have to leave,” Mom is saying to Chuck, but he puts a hand on her arm and speaks quietly to her, reassuring her.

  Then Chuck is turning to Eric and gestures for him to follow. “You’re leaving your car here,” Chuck says to Eric. “Let’s go.”

  “I need my car,” Eric says. “I have school tomorrow.”

  “It’s my car,” Chuck says. “I make the payments. You can have it back next week. Maybe.” Then Chuck turns to me and says, “I’m sorry.”

  I only nod in response and am careful not to look at Eric again.

  When they are gone I breathe a long, slow sigh of relief.

  “Chuck is on your side, Dane,” Mom says.

  “There’s no sides to this, Mom. This is still my house, isn’t it?”

  Mom sighs and goes back to her room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

  * * *

  Monday morning I am awake early and waiting outside when I hear Colonel Marcus and Ophelia come out of the house. Their voices are raised in anger and I am straining to hear.

  “I will drop you at school,” Colonel Marcus is saying. “No more riding with your friends.”

  “I’d rather walk,” Ophelia says.

  “Suit yourself,” Colonel Marcus says, then throws a bag into the back seat of his car and climbs in.

  I wait, figuring she’s lying to her dad, because that’s exactly what I would do, and any minute one of her friends will pull around the curve in the road to come and get her.

  There isn’t a car in sight once Colonel Marcus is gone. I watch as Ophelia starts down the driveway, her head held low, her shoulders bent under the weight of her backpack. That’s some serious stubbornness, choosing to walk instead of riding with her dad. School must be at least a couple of miles away.