by J D Spero
“Mom!”
“That’s it.” Clapp folded Ty head-first onto the table and cuffed him behind his back. Everything turned sideways. Ty felt the table cool against his cheek. Hen cowered on the other side of the small room.
“I’m not making a run for it. I want to talk to my mom!”
Clapp pinned his torso with a sturdy forearm. Ty shut his eyes, blocking out the sideways world. He couldn’t block out Hen, though, who’d curled himself into a corner, spikes out.
“Tyler, I’m here.” He heard her voice before she appeared, grocery bags in tow. “What on earth is going on?”
“Tried to escape, Mrs. Trout.” Clapp still held him down. His cheek mushed against the table.
“Escape? I highly doubt that.”
Bernie came in. “Hey, Rob? Ah…that’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?”
Everything shifted into focus. Ty got handcuffed in the visiting room while his baby brother cried in the corner. Clapp hesitated, then keyed the cuffs loose. Ty scrambled back to his chair. The red eye winked, aloof. If he could find his tears, he would’ve cried openly. In front of everyone. But his insides had completely shut down. At once, he was overcome with fatigue.
His words were warbled. “Why did you bring Hen here?”
“He wanted to see you. Tyler, it’s Thanksgiving.”
“He’s not supposed to see this.” Ty couldn’t tell Marcella about the UFO camera, either, he knew. Misery filled him.
“Tyler, please—”
“I don’t want him here. I don’t want him to see this.”
Marcella spotted Hen.
“Oh, no. Hen. I’m sorry.” She went to him. “Bernie, will you take him back to the car?”
It took ages for them to leave.
Red eye stared.
At some point, Clapp left too.
Red eye blinked.
Marcella sat across from him. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear what she said.
Ty’s eyes burned. He pulled on his hood. He couldn’t look at the UFO camera. Shame colored him. It was all a giant misunderstanding, but they wouldn’t see it that way. They heard “trap” and made all kinds of assumptions. He was trapped now. No making up for it. It was so hopeless. They had heard everything. And they still listened.
“Did something happen?” Marcella’s voice rang clear, like they’d switched the volume back on.
His eyes went wide.
“Is there anything you want to talk about?” Her tone strained with worry.
“No.”
On the table, someone had scratched Prick into the linoleum. Could they see that too? He tried to smudge it out with his thumb, but it was etched. Permanent.
“I’m sorry I brought Hen here,” she said softly. “I was—we were hoping to share a meal with you. I guess I’ll leave you your dinner. Is there anything I can bring you? Anything else you want?”
He looked at his mother, sober now. “Dad?”
Confusion flitted over Marcella’s face. “You—you want me to call your father?”
“Does Dad even know I’m here? Does he know I’m in trouble?”
A sigh. “Tyler, it’s not that simple.”
“He’s my dad. He’s got a right to know what’s going on.”
“Tyler, honey.” Her voice caught. “I don’t think you’d be happy with the outcome if I called him. I want to save you from—”
“You asked me if you could bring me anything.”
“You want your father…to come here?”
Ty nodded. “He’s my dad.”
A laugh fluttered out. “Tyler, you can’t really call him ‘Dad.’ Has he really been a father to you? I mean, Bernie is more of a father than—”
Tyler narrowed his eyes. “Bernie’s not my father.”
She sniffed hard. “Bernie has been there for our family since Hen was born. He would do anything for us. He’s a good man.”
That Prick etching shouted at him.
“Bernie’s not Hen’s father, either.” Ty crossed his arms. “Find my dad. Please. Tell him I’m here. Tell him I want to see him.” He stared her down. “Please.”
“Okay. Fine.” She pinched her lips like she did when she was upset.
Ty nodded, hiding his face from the camera. He made it better. He could feel it. Giving them something else to work on. They’d forget about Hen’s trap. He could hear their tiny gears spinning inside, behind the red eye. This would keep them busy.
Minutes ticked by. Maybe hours.
His mother was still there.
“I love you,” she said, as if trying out the words, which were absorbed into the reprocessed air and sucked up into the UFO.
They took that too. They had dibs on everything.
Marcella would rather eat a worm sandwich.
She stared at the phone, the dial tone buzzing her hand. It wasn’t going to dial itself. She knew she had to push the dang buttons.
Meep, meep, meep—
The dial tone switched to alarm mode.
When she hung up, she expected relief. No such luck.
When did she last talk to Tyler’s father? The thought of him made her insides quiver. After all this time—nearly two decades—he still had a hold on her. He took up space inside her, carved a place for himself there. A rat in the wall. He shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t even be a thought.
They’d met line dancing at Raul’s Rodeo in Ticonderoga back in ‘73. Marcella had gone with another waitress from the diner, Darlene, for Ladies Night two-for-one drinks. The place was mobbed with costumed cowboys in novelty bandanas and pointy boots. Wide-brimmed hats on the most dedicated phonies.
The band was one of those scaled-back miracles—just three instruments and vocals for a big sound. The guitarist was tall. His thin, sinewy body mismatched his square, superhero jaw. Under the stage lights, his eyes sparkled a bright blue and his grin flashed whiter than a movie star’s. He crooned into the microphone, his lips caressing it, seducing it. He moved his hips slowly behind his guitar. Sensual. Made love to it.
When the band took a break, he smoked sulkily by the payphone, James Dean style. Marcella swayed next to Darlene on the dance floor, but couldn’t look away from him. His eyes were hungry on her.
When the track switched, he was there. Encircling her with his strong arms like he’d done it a hundred times before. His warm body sheathed in denim and smelling of Jovan Musk. With their hips locked, he sang into her ear, his bright blues glistening in the strobe light. She’d never seen eyes like that. He twirled her, dipped her. Her laughter filled the space between them.
“Oh, my,” he said, as if he’d bitten into a perfect cut of steak. “God is good.”
His sharp blue eyes cut to her soul. Three margaritas didn’t have anything on this guy. She sobered in a second. His intense gaze was like a sponge.
“What do they call you?” he asked.
She hesitated.
He didn’t. He leaned in to taste her. He kissed her neck, his full lips tugging the tender skin there, sending a tickle through her body. She went limp in his arms. No man had ever made her feel like that before.
Do that again.
When he kissed her neck a second time, she pressed against him. She couldn’t get close enough. Everyone on the dance floor disappeared. Just the two of them under the lights. She wanted to kiss him for real, and pulled him to her. Never had she been so bold. But he was ready. Their mouths were like magnets for each other. His tongue played on her lips and danced across her teeth. He cut away too soon, spinning her around, and then caught her close. Her breath stopped. When he traced a finger across her V-neck top, nearly touching the top of her breasts, she thought she’d never breathe again.
“Marcella,” she finally said, though names seemed superfluous now.
“Marcy.” As if he already owned her. “I’m Tripp.” It could’ve been anything, but it was that ridiculous name. She barely heard it.
He’d grabbed hold of something inside her. Pried h
er open and climbed inside.
And there he stayed. Even though she hadn’t seen him or spoken to him in years. He still remained.
And now she was calling him.
For Tyler, she told herself. This was for Tyler.
His voice was groggy, as if he’d just woken up.
“It’s me,” she said, knowing.
“Oh, my.” As if he’d bitten into a perfect cut of steak. “Marcy.”
Her stomach went wiggly and her feet itched. Her kitchen linoleum became a dance floor. His brilliant blues gazed at her, disco lights pulsing and flickering behind him. His sure arms hugged her close, their hips locked…
She should hang up.
She pressed the receiver to her cheek.
“What do you want?” His words were clipped. That snapped her out of it.
She stood tall, stomped her foot lightly. And wiped the smile from her face.
“It’s Tyler.”
December 1991
Thick snow—slush farts, as Hen called them—obscured her windshield as she drove to Port Henry Amtrak. Dark as pitch at five pm, thanks to Daylight Saving Time. She parked with a view of the arrival platform, kept the heat and wipers on. Headlights off.
And waited.
The wipers were hypnotic. Put her in a trance.
Tripp had accepted her offer without hesitation. He may have agreed without her paying his fare. She’d expected a battle. But no. It was suspicious how quickly he got from Arkansas to the Adirondacks. Had he been waiting for the invitation all these years? Marcella shook the thought. He wasn’t here to see her. She bit her lip. That shaky, upside-down feeling told her he wasn’t exactly here to see Tyler, either.
“Man of mystery.” Her voice was hoarse.
She cleared her throat, sure something was stuck there. She hadn’t brought water, and now she felt she might choke. She turned off the heat.
Platform was still empty. Where the heck was he? Train should have been there already. She forced a deep breath. A bellowing whistle signaled the train’s approach. When its doors opened, it was like opening floodgates. Passengers disembarked. They lugged their bags to the parking area. Things busied around her. Still, no sign of Tripp.
Safe inside her dark, warm car, she had an urge to make an escape. What was she doing, anyway? Why did she agree to this?
In the next moment, she panicked. Where was he? Did he miss his train?
The platform lights were bright and bare. The crowd dwindled.
Maybe he waited under the awning? She flashed her headlights.
There. He emerged from the snow mist like a spirit. His cowboy hat moved as if disembodied under the platform lights.
“He still wears that thing?” she said aloud.
Across his shoulders, he carried an enormous canvas bag—a dirty laundry sack or a body bag. He paused, kinked his hip. Damn, he still looked good in jeans. The hat’s broad rim tilted and his face came out of its shadow, searching for her past the falling snow. His free hand, gloveless, clenched to keep warm. His mouth was slightly open, vulnerable. She felt a trace of warmth for him, like pulling an old file.
She flashed her headlights again. And rummaged in her purse for a mint.
“You’ll have to find me. No way am I getting out in this.”
He sauntered toward her car.
She steeled herself as he approached, a sinking feeling in her stomach. The steering wheel was hard and cold in her hands. She crunched her mint and checked her lipstick in the rearview.
“Oh, Marcella. What are you doing?” She adjusted her scarf. “And why are you talking to yourself?”
The passenger door swung open, sending a gush of snowy air inside.
“Oh, my.” His once-liquid baritone sounded gravelly and aged.
She refused to smile at him. “Hello, Tripp.”
He slammed the door, shutting out the outside world. The silence was too intimate.
“My, my Marcy.”
“I’m not your Marcy.” She meant to be firm, but it came out high-pitched. Almost flirty.
He slung a large duffle bag into the backseat as if to shrug. “How about some grub, Mount Marcy? I’m starving.”
Mount Marcy—both a noun and a verb, in his mind.
The steering wheel was like her tether to the earth. “Don’t you want to see Tyler?”
“Now?” He cracked his neck. “Can he join us for eats?”
Her jaw dropped. “Join us? He’s being held, Tripp. I told you his situation over the phone. After his just cause hearing, they’re holding him until the trial.”
“Damn.” Too casual. “Welp, still starving. Pull in at Leon’s, would’ya?” Reclaiming his role, making demands, expecting her to blindly obey.
Not this time. She gritted her teeth and kept her eyes on the road. By the time they got to Schroon Lake, though, her stomach was growling.
“Fine. But then we need to get home to my little guy.”
“Oh, right. The little guy. What’s his name again?”
Marcella hesitated. “Henry. We call him Hen.”
“Hen.” Tripp soiled the name.
Leave my Hen alone.
She said nothing as she pulled into the parking lot. Leon’s Diner neon lit up her windshield. It offered a good look at Tripp, in profile. The double chin as he studied his train ticket, the slack around his strong jaw. Secretly pleased, she checked herself. After all, she’d aged too.
They walked toward the front door together, couple-like. Tripp held it open for her.
“Go ahead.” Marcella waited, shivering, until it fully closed again. That gave Tripp a head start and—she saw now—an advantage. Tripp went directly into the bowels of the diner where he high-fived Leon as if they were old buds. Which, of course, they were. Marcella slid into an empty booth alone. Why hadn’t she hit the drive-thru at Burger King or a quick pit stop at Stewart’s?
Being at Leon’s Diner with Tripp was like entering a time warp. Tripp was a regular back then. Mostly in the back room doing who-knows-what. It probably wouldn’t be long until the good ol’ boys hid back there again. For old time’s sake.
A steaming mug of coffee appeared in front of her.
“Thanks,” she told the waitress whose nametag read “Blondie.”
Through the order-up window, Tripp bear-hugged Derek. The three of them—Tripp, Leon, and Derek—gurgled with secretive laughter. Bile filled her throat. She willed him to look at her. Once again, she was ignored. As she predicted, they retreated to the back room. And she was alone, waiting. Again.
Turning to the window, she saw her reflection in it. Melting snow made wet streaks on the glass, stretching her reflection into a ghoulish image. A stinging memory came flooding back.
They’d been married only a few months. Tripp had left home without his favorite belt—the one with the longhorn buckle. A helpful, doting wife, she’d trailed him like a lost puppy. Sniffed him out where she wasn’t welcome. At Raul’s. In the back room. Playing cards.
“There you are,” she’d said, saddling a chair behind him.
No answer.
Maybe he hadn’t heard?
“Hey, babe,” she tried again, nuzzling his neck.
His body went rigid.
A catcall from across the table had made Tripp come to. He flinched away from her, ducking toward his cards. He shuffled his hand, lay a chip down, made his play.
He was busy. She carefully detached from him, detonating a bomb. She draped his belt over his chair back. While his cigar-smoking neighbor made his move, she leaned close to Tripp’s ear, and pretended not to see his jaw clench.
“I brought your belt,” she whispered, sure he’d be glad.
Tripp’s glare scalded her. It was fleeting, but it stung. The heat stayed with her out to her car, throughout the drive home.
All night, she’d stewed. As dawn opened, she couldn’t wait any longer. She went back to Raul’s. Stomped to the back room with resolve. “Tripp, I want to talk to you.”
Cigar guy rolled his eyes at her. Tripp ignored her.
“Hey, I’m standing right here. I need to talk to you.”
No response.
She welled with rage. “Tripp, talk to me!”
God knows what possessed her to grab his arm. She did feel that way—possessed. She would not be ignored. She had to talk to him. She needed reassurance. Proof of love. Right then. She yanked his elbow so he’d face her.
Her efforts were futile. Laughable. He flicked away her hand like it was a beetle.
“Tripp!” Her voice was ugly and unfamiliar.
“What?” He might as well have spit on her.
She steadied her voice. “I need to talk to you. Please.”
“You need to talk to me?” He barked a laugh. They all laughed. Cigar guy and the rest of them. Howling at her.
Shaken, she’d made it back to her car and back home. How dare he dismiss her like that? Humiliate her! She tried to reason around it. A dirty look. Some harsh words. Laughter. It couldn’t have been that bad. Right? But something had happened that night. He’d frightened her. She never quite got over it.
Now, alone at the booth in Leon’s Diner, the coffee cup shook in her hand.
Blondie set the check on the table. “Sorry. I gotta go. Not suppose’ta close. Derek was gonna—”
“It’s okay. Go ahead.” Marcella reached in to her wallet, strangely impassive about money. After paying Tripp’s fare and now dinner, she was spent.
She helped herself to a glass of water, and—on autopilot—grabbed a dishrag. She wiped down all the tables and counters while Blondie finished with the last customer. Why was she doing this pro bono crap for Leon? Where the hell was Tripp?
This was not happening. Not again.
She ventured to the back room to see.
The three of them, together. Each holding a Bud Light. Derek a part of it, like one of the guys. They laughed. No cards or gambling or girls or heavy booze. Just laughter.
Still, it was too much. Tyler sat in jail while they had a freaking party.
