by J D Spero
Now she attended an arraignment for their son, whose eager eyes were full of hope and blue, blue, blue like his father’s. Eyes that now begged, Tell me about my dad, as he’d asked countless times throughout the years.
“I don’t know where he is,” she told Bowman. It was sort of true.
“You don’t know where his family is? Where he’s from?”
“I do.” Marcella pursed her lips. How much truth was required here? “Tripp was never close with his family.” This was true. Emotionally, he wasn’t close to them. Or anyone. Certainly, he’d never been close to Marcella that way. She felt her throat closing.
“Does it matter where his family lives?” she blurted. “It doesn’t mean he’s there, too. Who knows where he is?” Siberia, for all she cared. She tugged her skirt hem over her knees, fighting the heat in her face. That was all he’d get from her, period. Tyler wouldn’t get any crazy ideas to start a scavenger hunt in Arkansas in search of his deadbeat dad. Especially now.
“Any interest in finding your dad, son?” Bowman asked Tyler directly.
Marcella started. What a jolt. How dare he manipulate the situation.
One glance at Tyler told her how dangerous that question really was. Her heart raced. “Tyler, you don’t have to answer—”
Tyler nodded once, his ice-blue eyes filling.
She shot out of her chair. “Oh, no. Tyler. Come on.” She couldn’t help herself. “You don’t want your father. You don’t need him. We don’t need him. We never have!”
She reached for him. She was enough, wasn’t she? All these years, she had done it without Tripp-freaking-Trout. She’d worked so hard, saving every dime. Her voice got louder. “Tyler, really. Your whole life…who’s been there when you were sick? Who rubbed your back for hours and sang you songs after a really bad night, huh? Who cooked for you, did your laundry, bought you clothes and shoes and everything you ever needed? It wasn’t your father, I’ll tell you that.”
Justice Bowman stood. “Mrs. Trout—”
“Tyler, look at me!”
He did. And Marcella flinched. That stone-cold glare, so like his father’s.
He was angry. With her? Her chest hollowed from shock. What had she done wrong? She was here to help him. Didn’t he know that?
She sank back into her chair, feeling numb.
Bowman calmly stepped toward Tyler. “Do you have an idea where your father is? Has he been in touch with you at all? Sent birthday cards or—”
“Honestly, Carl. Must you torture the child?”
Bowman looked sharply at Marcella. “This child is accused of a very adult crime. In fact, he may be tried as an adult. Do you know what kind of prison sentence accompanies a verdict of involuntary manslaughter?”
Marcella’s hand floated to her mouth. Manslaughter?
Tyler must not have heard. He was trying to find his father now. His words cut through her: “I think he might be in Arkansas.” A student trying to please his teacher. “Right, Mom? Didn’t you tell me his family was in Arkansas? He’s probably there.”
Oh, goodness. Had she told him? Her words ran together. “Probably not. I doubt it. He’s probably in Mexico or something.” Her lie painted her red, she was sure now.
Tyler shook his head, an a-ha! look lighting up his face. “No, no. You told me once he lived in Arkansas.”
“When did I tell you that?” She hated herself for how nasty she sounded.
“A while ago. But I never forgot it.” He added in a dreamy voice, “I’ve never been to Arkansas.”
“And you’re never going.” Bitterness clipped her words. She had an urge to stomp her foot like a toddler. Now was not the time for Tyler to rebel. She was trying to protect him. Didn’t he see that? Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut?
Tyler gave her his father’s glare again. It blindsided her. She blinked at her son, hardly recognizing him.
The silence that followed weighed a ton.
Clapp tapped his gun belt.
Marcella turned to Bowman, heat creeping up her neck. “Mr. Bowman. Carl, please—”
He was making notes in a folder, the tab of which read: TYLER TROUT – MANSLAUGHTER.
Marcella felt hope spin loose like ribbon from a maypole. She might hyperventilate. It was ages before anyone spoke. In that maddening legal mumbo jumbo again. She only caught bits.
Due to the severity…state of mind of suspect…potential risk…suspect leaving the state…remain in custody…evidentiary hearing…whether he will be indicted…to the grand jury…
When Clapp snapped handcuffs on Tyler’s skinny wrists, something snapped inside her.
“Wait-wait-wait a minute.” Her voice rose. “What’s this? He’s coming home, right? He can come home with me, can’t he?”
“I’m sorry, Marcella. I can’t justify—”
“He won’t go anywhere, Carl. He wouldn’t do that.” As she said it, her gut hitched. Tyler accepted the handcuffs too readily, like it was a game. His lips twisted in a cocky grin. He eyed Marcella as if to say, ‘Watch this.’
Her stomach dropped, sickness filled it.
“He wouldn’t…” She trailed off.
She had no idea what her son was capable of.
The diner’s bell triggered a Pavlovian sinking in Marcella’s gut. Before she could turn back, Leon spotted her.
“Marcey-Marce, my love! Back to work for me, doll?” Leon winked, and mumbled to a customer who laughed into his napkin.
“Oh, please. No. Just hoped we could talk.” Marcella made her way to an open booth, feeling Leon’s eyes on her skirt. Stay strong. She was here for a reason. That reason involved Leon, regrettably.
Why wouldn’t they listen to you? she’d said the night the boys were taken in for questioning. Hopefully, he still held the reins in this town.
The big oaf slid her a mug of black coffee and took a seat.
“What’s up?” A toothpick clenched in his teeth.
“Really? You don’t know? I’m here about Tyler. And Derek.”
“Ah.”
“Why else would I come here?”
He half-smiled. His scruff clicked beneath his hand. “What about ‘em?”
Marcella blinked at him. “I just came from Tyler’s arraignment. They wouldn’t release him to me. They’re holding him. Since Sally died, it’s worse—the charges, I mean. Way worse. They’re talking manslaughter.” She could barely say the word.
Something crossed Leon’s beady eyes. Compassion, perhaps? Marcella praised herself for coming. The unlucky truth? This slob of a man was her only real hope for helping Tyler.
He laughed, and she smelled raw onion. “This a joke?”
“No, absolutely not.” Marcella forced a sip of coffee.
That lewd kink in his brow tormented her. Surely, he had to know that Tyler being charged with manslaughter meant about the same for—
“Hey, D!” he called, startling her.
What was he doing?
But then, a reply. An annoyed, teenage reply. The voice held the same cocky attitude she heard so often in Tyler.
“Yo, D!” Leon called again, his eyes not leaving Marcella’s. “Derek! Come out here.”
Derek appeared from the back kitchen, waddling in his loafy high tops and backwards cap, his attitude shifting from cocky to curious when he spotted Marcella.
What? Derek was here?
How many times did Pop call his name before Derek finally came out from the kitchen? It was a game he liked to play. See how many times the old man called him before losing his cool. Emerge just before cool is lost. For all Derek knew, Leon wanted him to haul in frozen patties or sacks of flour or whatever shipment came in.
Derek and his pop had an unusual relationship, if you could call it that. From his earliest memories, Pop had spoken to him as if he were a peer. No secrets—big or small. Derek had always known the truth about Santa Claus. He knew penny wishes never came true. He knew his mother died in a car wreck when he was two-and-a-half. He knew h
is father never loved her. He knew there was no such thing as heaven.
From age nine, Derek worked in the diner, mopping up the day’s grease. Most nights he stayed until closing. Some might have said it was a crappy childhood, but Derek didn’t think so. Someday he would own the place. It would be all his. And he’d be as powerful as his old man.
He rounded the corner chuckling to himself. And then he saw her.
Marcella.
He almost tripped on his laces. He had to consciously stay cool in his swagger as he approached her table, his heart racing.
“‘Sup?” How hard it was to stay aloof.
“You know Tyler’s mother, D,” Pop spat. “Be polite and say hello.”
“Hi, Mrs. Trout.”
“Hello, Derek.” Marcella hardened her stare. “Do you know where Tyler is?”
Not since he told me to screw off. “Not his sitter, ma’am.”
Pop smirked. Marcella glared. Derek stood between them feeling like an ass. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint her.
Since losing his mother, Marcella was the mom he never had. Fed him hot dogs and macaroni on weekends, snuck sandwiches into his backpack at the bus stop. She taught him how to play checkers and Monopoly. In the winter, she’d take him and Ty sledding. In the summer, she’d let them run around in the sprinkler. She never forgot his birthday. Once when he was in first grade, his fever spiked and she held a cool cloth to his forehead as he shivered under a blanket for hours. He’d looked at her with bleary eyes and swore he saw a glow around her hair. A halo.
He tried again. “I don’t know where Ty is.”
Her voice shook. “He’s been arrested. They’re holding him. There’s going to be a trial, I think.” Angry tears slid from her wide brown eyes. “Derek, do you understand? Tyler can’t come home. And you’re loping around without a care in the world.”
Derek cleared his throat, studied his shoes. “Sorry. Um, I think me and Ty are in a fight.”
“What? A fight?” Marcella softened in an instant. “Oh, my goodness. What on earth happened?”
Pop’s laughter sounded like he was gurgling marbles. Ignoring him, Marcella made room for Derek to sit. “Please, Derek. What happened? You can tell me.”
Derek glanced at Pop for a microsecond. Marcella caught it.
“Leon.” She smoothed her hair. “I just realized I’m famished. With everything that’s happened today, I haven’t had a thing to eat. Could you make me one of your famous egg-in-the-nests?”
After a pause, Pop knocked on the table. “Sure thing, doll.”
“But I want you to make it.” She gave a radiant smile. “You make the best ones.”
Pop actually blushed. Derek fought a grin.
With Pop gone, Marcella took Derek’s hand. “Go on. Tell me.”
All those hard edges melted away. Derek yearned to curl up and cry in Marcella’s lap, feel her slender fingers in his hair. Tell her everything. Let her make it okay.
He never wanted to be a bully. He never wanted to hurt anyone. Especially her.
“Go on.”
Derek took back his hand. His shoulders shrugged on reflex. He heard himself say, “Wasn’t me. Thought we were a team, yanno? But Ty, man…”
Her eyes dipped at the corners, softening him like butter on the counter. She loved him, didn’t she? Like a son, one of her own. She’d love him no matter what, like a real mom. Didn’t she? He gazed at her, searching.
The truth knocked against his chest, remembering, and the words choked out from that dark place he swore he’d never go. “We were scared. We were in there and…Ty, he. I dunno. It got outta control—”
“Where? Where were you?”
Derek reared back, catching himself. She didn’t ask about that night. Did he want to talk about it? Confess everything? No. He couldn’t go there. Not now, not ever. Put it back in the bottom vault of his memory. He reset his thoughts.
Marcella nudged him back on track. “Why are you and Ty in a fight, Derek?”
“Um, the police station. When they brought us in for questioning.”
“Okay. In the station. Go ahead.”
Derek sighed. It was a dumb story. Not even worth talking about. “I dunno. They released us and I knew they were gonna release us. Wait. Ty’s never been home since they brought us in for questioning?”
“No, he came home. Then Sally died and, well, they arrested him since. And they’re holding him until the trial.” She wiped her nose with a napkin. “But tell me what happened after they questioned you. You were together when they released you, right?
“Yeah, I guess Ty was still scared. You know how he gets sometimes. Not like regular scared, but crazy scared.”
“I don’t like that word. Tyler doesn’t either—”
“I didn’t mean crazy.” He swallowed. “I meant, different. He sees things different. Sometimes he sees things that ain’t there.”
Out the window, the city bus passed. On its way to New York City. Why would anyone want to spend any time in a big city like that? He felt suffocated thinking of it. What would Ty do if he ever found himself in the city? Probably curl up on the corner. Just give into it. Let his visions take him to another place. Derek cringed.
Marcella took his hand again. Brought him back. “I know Tyler sees the world differently than the rest of us. He’s always been sensitive.”
Derek studied her. She didn’t get it. How could she not know? “No, like…” What was he going to say? Something was definitely wrong with Ty. His mind was his worst enemy. He couldn’t believe she didn’t see it. Who was he to explain it to her? “Never mind.”
“Okay.” She seemed eager to move on. “You said Tyler was still scared after the two of you got released. I’m sure he was. So you got in a fight?” She stroked his hand with her thumb. It released a flood of emotion. He blinked back tears.
“Well, they released us and I started walkin’ to the truck, yanno? And—whatever—Ty started walkin’ the other way. Who knows where he was going? I thought he was confused. Like the whole situation knocked his brain for a loop or somethin’. Then I called to him. Nothin’ bad or anything. ‘Let’s get outta dodge,’ I said. I was gonna take him home but he kept walkin’. ‘Where you goin’?’ I said. I kept callin’ after him, but he kept goin’ the other way. And then he tole me to…well, he kept walkin’. He musta walked all the way back to Severance by himself.”
“What were you going to say? He told you to—what?” She kept petting his hand. “It’s okay. Tell me what he said.”
He laughed through the flush of heat in his face. “Tole me to screw off. ‘Screw off, Derek!’ he shouted at me. Over and over.”
Marcella nodded, her lips frozen in a mini-O. Then Pop brought her egg-in-the-nest and she let go of Derek’s hand.
It had been days and days. Still, the shadows crept in to Hen’s sleep.
…Two shadows. The Monster. And another. Small, soft, hunched over. Miss Sally? They faced each other, arguing. Something grew out of the Monster. A weirdly-shaped object. Heavy, by the slow way it swung around. Shadows splashed together. Now one huge, heaving blob, with sharp angles jutting out—a ball with spikes. It changed so fast. Like the darkness was trapped in a net.
“Put it down!” Miss Sally’s clear voice. “Get out of my house this instant!”
Thump. Like something heavy dropped.
The shadow blob flung apart, like an explosion. Leaving only the Monster.
Another voice. Distant, angry yelling. Hen felt a chill, recognizing it.
No, no, no. Heart hammering, he ran, pumping his arms to go faster. He fell into his play tent and pressed his Spiderman hood to his ears. Then, a different sound—one uglier and more terrible than any he’d heard coming from Miss Sally’s moments before.
A truck engine revving up. Not just any truck. A familiar junky, black Ford. Parked in front of Miss Sally’s.
Now it matched up. Hen’s brain clicked into gear. That other voice from the shadows? I
t went along with that truck, and belonged to Derek Hogg.
Fear gripped Hen’s bones as he craned to see, to be sure. Yes, there was Derek—alone in the cab of his truck—pounding his fist against the steering wheel. Mad as heck…
Someone screamed. Shrill and high-pitched.
It was Hen. Hen was screaming.
He awoke panting. His heart thundering.
“Hey, now. It’s okay. It’s okay.” Bernie hovered over him.
He blinked away the dream. But he couldn’t shake the fear. He looked around, getting his bearings. He was home. In the livingroom, on the couch. As he came to, a streak of heartache broke through him. Miss Sally was dead. The Monster had taken her. The dark quiet still haunted him. Hen’s chest rushed with heat.
“You had a bad dream, is all. You’re all right.” Bernie patted his shoulder like he was afraid Hen might break. He still wore his tappy dress shoes and button-down shirt.
Daylight came through the window. What was Hen doing on the couch? He wasn’t even wearing pajamas. The house was real quiet.
“Where’s Mom?”
“She, ah, should be home soon.”
Hen sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“It’s not all right,” he told Bernie. In seconds, his fear turned to sadness, and he cried quietly, curling into himself.
“Not true. Everything’s going to be all right.” Bernie forced a smile, gave Hen’s shoulder another pat, and sat in the armchair across the room.
Bernie. The one who has always fixed things. Everything’s going to be all right. Hen stopped crying and took the beaded bracelet out of his pocket. Ran his finger over the beads. Red, blue, yellow, green. He squeezed them so hard they made marks on his palm. He did it in the other hand too, harder.
He knew what he had to do. “Where’s Tyler?”
“Oh, he, uh…Why don’t you ask your ma when she gets back?”
