Backstage

by A. m Madden

  The way in which I stare her down causes her to fidget uncomfortably. The more I level her with my glare, the more she refuses to look at me. There is a new dynamic between us. She was always afraid of me physically, but now she is obviously afraid of my mental state as well. It’s as clear as day that she no longer pities me, but fears me.

  “You want to help me?”

  She nods quietly while swiping away her tears.

  “Do not utter one word of this conversation to him. If you claim to love me, you’ll keep this to yourself. I will know if you don’t, and you’ll lose me forever.” I keep to myself that she will be losing me anyway…and soon.

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “Good. Now get out.”

  She raises slowly, moves toward me and decides to leave the room instead. I don’t trust her. I’ll have to leave tonight.

  Once she left my room, I filled one bag with all that I could, including the several CDs I copied all his files on, the cash I stole and saved, Taylor’s bracelet, her picture from my nightstand, and my guitar. I removed the felt lining on my guitar case and taped the cash under it. If anyone was to open the case, all they would see is a beat up guitar. I did the same with the lining of the suitcase, hiding the CDs beneath it. The minute I get to L.A., I’ll have to find a safe place for this stuff. It’s a bit unnerving to be carrying all this cash and all my dad’s records.

  I hid the bag in the back of my closet and sat waiting for the fateful hour. During that time, I heard when he came home. I heard bits of the muffled conversation between him and my mother. She recapped my day and omitted what I asked her to. Just because she has, doesn’t mean she won’t cave the minute I go missing.

  Tonight I need to get my father riled up until he admits what I need him to. Based on his personality, I’m pretty confident he will voice the confession I need. He gets off on shocking me, upsetting me. He always retires to his office after dinner, staying there for hours, even after my mother goes to bed. Tonight I plan on paying him a visit. If nothing else, I want him to admit enough to supply the Rappaports with a reason to doubt Taylor killed herself. I’ll leave them with that seed of doubt, leaving his fate in their hands.

  I wait it out until I’m confident my mother is in bed and my father is in his office. When I grab my bag and guitar, I take one more glance around before leaving it forever. I feel no attachment to what I’m leaving behind. There are four walls, a floor, a ceiling, and it’s only a reminder of the hell that has been my life. I slip my hand in my pocket, turning on the recorder that will capture every word that’s about to be spoken. My heart is pounding frantically in my chest. It’s not because I fear him. He no longer scares me. Knowing how he thinks is power. What I fear is not getting what I need to fuck up his life for good.

  I sneak down the stairs, stowing my possessions in the front hall closet before I make the trek to his office. Our house is huge, a king’s fortress. How do his parishioners not question his intentions? Most of his congregation is lower middle class. Granted, most of his money was inherited, but a true selfless soldier of God would be far more generous than my father is. How blind are they to his propaganda to ignore what he surrounds himself with?

  Standing in the shadow of the hall, I watch him scouring the pages of his Bible while making notes in the margins. He makes me sick. He fooled so many for so long. I study the scowl lines on his face, committing to memory every one. I’m so quiet that it’s several minutes before he knows I’m there.

  I enter his office without invitation, shutting the door behind me.

  “What do you want?”

  “Did you do it?” I don’t bother offering a prologue or an explanation of my question. He knows what I’m referring to. The tiny smirk on his face gives him away immediately. “Why did you do it?”

  He closes the Bible and then runs his fingers over the embossed letters. I stand patiently, waiting for what I know is about to come. That sermon that always leads into his reasoning on why he felt his despicable act was necessary. In this case, killing the love of my life.

  “Colossians 3:5- Put to death therefore what is earthly in you: sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry.”

  Even though I knew, even though I didn’t have a doubt he killed her, his words cause me to bend over, gasping for air. My reaction fuels him further.

  “She was a sinner. Of course you led her into sin, but her actions were her own. Proverbs 28:13 – People who conceal their sins will not prosper, but if they confess and turn from them, they will receive mercy.” He stands and slowly walks toward his window, staring out into the darkness. I need more from him. This isn’t enough.

  “You aren’t God.”

  “I am God’s soldier. I gave her an opportunity to repent and she chose not to.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I followed you once before. When I got home and you weren’t here, I immediately knew that’s where you would be.” He turns to face me, shrugging as if that explains everything.

  Did he hear my plans? Panic creeps through me as I try to figure out what it is he knows. “You’re lying. I would have seen your car pull up.”

  “When I arrived, your truck was empty. It wasn’t hard to find you. You were both very preoccupied and never heard me approach.”

  “You watched us?”

  His response to my question confirms it. “You now also need to repent.”

  “You’re a murderer.”

  “The Bible says those fighting for God’s cause will be protected in battle.”

  “Battle? You killed an eighteen-year old girl. You tried to kill me, and I know you’ll try again.”

  “Trestan, your sins have to be judged.”

  “By who? You? You are not God. What you are is a sick fuck.”

  A vein pulses in his forehead. I know he’s using every fiber of his being to control his anger. I also know he is now running through different ways he will be helping me to repent my sins. While he stands corralling his rage, I ask him one more question. I need him to admit it.

  “How did you get her there?” He doesn’t respond. “Her car was there, did you follow her there?” Still nothing. Tears prick my eyes as I picture her trying to get away from him. Scenarios of what she went through fill me with pure hatred. I desperately want to feel her in my arms once more. “Did she suffer?” I ask in barely a whisper.

  Once again he doesn’t respond, but instead moves back to his bookshelf to retrieve another book. He’s dismissed me. He’s done. I’m starting to panic again, thinking he’s on to me. I need to take the upper hand and make him vulnerable to my sudden awakening. I’ve always submitted, believing if I didn’t respond to his unreasonable preaching it would anger him more. This time, I need to make it clear I’m done. I have a job to do. I need to nail this fucker to the cross. I could easily kill him right now with my bare hands. That will serve nothing but end his miserable existence. I’d rather make his life a living hell. I want him constantly worrying that I’ll expose him and his many crimes. Just the threat of me doing so will be enough to drive him insane.

  “I’ve had enough. You’re about to pay the piper. I know you killed Taylor. I know of all your illegal activities under the guise of your God.” I wave a CD in his face so he knows that I have all I need to destroy him. “I sure hope your God is forgiving. My bet is when the day comes that your miserable existence leaves this earth you’ll rot in hell. After tonight, the next time you’ll see me will be your own judgment day.” I calmly walk over to his desk and lift the phone, punching in the required numbers.

  “911, what’s your emergency?”

  “My father has threatened to kill me.”

  His chest heaves as I calmly hold the receiver and explain to the operator that he slit my wrist once before and I fear he’ll do it again.

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Trestan Barton, son of Reverend Simon Barton.”

  “Stay on
the line with me, sir. Is he still in the house?”

  “Yes.” She asks me a series of questions, reminding me to stay on the line. Ignoring the operator’s request, I abruptly hang up once I hear the sirens outside the house. Secretly I allow myself to finally breathe a sigh of relief.

  “No one will ever believe you.” The panic in his voice betrays him. This is my last chance, my last attempt.

  “I have to try. You need to be stopped. You tried to kill me by slitting my wrists. You killed my girlfriend by slitting hers. I don’t doubt if I hadn’t called the cops, you would have tried again tonight.”

  “You have no proof.”

  I laugh sarcastically and respond, “I have plenty of proof, and I plan on ruining you with it.”

  “You will pay for this. Exodus 21:17 – And he that curseth his father, or his mother, shall surely be put to death.”

  The door abruptly opens, and my mother appears in the doorway. “What is going on in here?”

  “Go back to bed, Monica. Your son is having another episode.”

  Someone pounds on the door, and my father calmly walks past us to answer it. I follow right behind him. The minute he opens it, he immediately says, “We are so sorry to drag you out here tonight, officers. There has been a misunderstanding and my very difficult teenage son is trying to ruffle my feathers.”

  One of the officers looks from my dad to me, and then back to him, his hand positioned on his gun the entire time.

  “Is that true, son?” he asks while watching my dad.

  “Nope.”

  I remove the recorder from my pocket and hand it to him. He turns it over in his hand and asks, “What will we hear on this?”

  “Enough to hopefully put him away,” I admit while watching my father’s face. His pallor is a sickly grey. The coloring has drained from his obnoxious face. I proceed to tell the officers what happened to Taylor. I explain I felt threatened, and based on his last attempt to discipline me I fear for my life. They listen to the recording and call for back up.

  Without invitation, the officers both move into the foyer, subtly surrounding my dad, flanking him on each side. I’m sure the embarrassment he is feeling at the moment is far worse than the possibility that he can be hauled away. In his mind, he is innocent. He’s always been invincible, untouchable. My mother moves to stand beside me and the gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by my dad.

  He begins to ramble about all the other times I defied him, trying to garner attention by my attempted suicide. One officer listens intently while the other takes notes.

  My original plan did not have me calling the police, but now it’s done. I have no idea how this will affect my flight from this hell I’m living in. I need to consider it a temporary setback, and hopefully, the beginning of his demise.

  We spent all night down at the police station. We were interrogated individually. My recording of our conversation was enough to open an investigation on the death of Taylor Rappaport. The recording was turned over to the homicide detective on duty. My mother came forward admitting she heard most of our conversation. Her statement authenticated my recording. The Rappaports were brought in and given details of the events that occurred tonight between my father and me. My father is being held for more questioning. They can hold him for ninety-six hours before they arrest him for murder. I plan on being gone by then.

  On my way out of the police station, I turn a corner and run right into the Rappaports. It’s the first time I’ve seen them since the funeral. Mrs. Rappaport is taking short gulps of air in between her sobs. Her husband comforts her as best as possible while fighting back his own tears. They both look up stunned, unable to hide the discomfort they feel coming face to face with me.

  “Um…can I talk to you in private?”

  They exchange a look before he speaks, “We don’t want any problems with the investigation.” He dismisses me, guiding his wife toward the exit.

  I follow behind asking again, “Please?” They wait for me to elaborate, and my guilt forces me to do so. “I need to talk to you. I need to tell you everything I’ve been through…and everything Taylor knew as well.”

  He nods solemnly and escorts his wife out the front door. I rush home to get my things. I plan on getting the fuck out of here tonight.

  One hour later, I’m sitting in their driveway clearly stalling for time. I don’t want them to misinterpret my intentions. I want them to understand how much I loved their daughter, how empty my life is without her, and how much I am hurting.

  Sitting in my truck, I could still feel her presence. I can practically smell her perfume. I can also hear her voice encouraging me to get out of the truck, to move on, to live, and to be happy. It’s Taylor who gives me the strength to walk up to their door and finally ring their bell. It’s Taylor who gives me a reason to continue with my plan.

  When her father answers the door, my newfound confidence falters. He moves aside without a word, allowing me access. Mrs. Rappaport sits at the kitchen table, her eyes still red-rimmed and swollen.

  “What is this about, Trestan?” he asks, his voice laced with annoyance.

  “Sir, I need you to understand what Taylor meant to me. I loved her with all my heart. I’ll always have to live with the fact I didn’t protect her enough. I had no idea he was capable of this. I should have known.” I lift the sleeve of my jacket to reveal the healing wound on my wrist. “I didn’t do this. My father did.”

  “What do you mean your father did?”

  “He slit my wrist while I slept. He made it look like I tried to commit suicide.”

  Mr. Rappaport’s eyes bulge from shock, his wife gasps audibly.

  I proceed to tell them everything that man has done to me over the span of my life. I explain the Bible quotes he would preach to justify his acts. I tell them my mother’s role in his abuse. I want them to know it all. At first they look skeptical, doubting everything I admit. Slowly, compassion creeps into their eyes. They were conned just as the rest of them were, but I don’t care about the rest of his flock. I only care about Taylor’s family. They deserve to be told, they need to be enlightened. They need to hold this information to protect themselves from Simon Barton.

  I allow them to process all I just dumped on them. Mrs. Rappaport takes my hand and whispers, “Thank you for telling us.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault, Trestan. You do not deserve all that you’ve endured.” She lowers her eyes and releases my hand before adding, “Taylor adored you. She loved you so much. She wanted you to be happy. Your happiness was all she ever cared about. I’m so sorry I didn’t see you for who you were. Maybe things would have been different if I had supported her instead of discouraging her to be with you.”

  “You only reacted to what you heard about me. I made Taylor promise to not tell you guys. She wanted to. She thought you could help me. But whenever I did try to confide to an adult, it would backfire. I didn’t want her involved or you.” I lower my head before admitting in a whisper, “I failed her. I promised her I would never let anything happen to…” Emotion clogs my throat, preventing me from finishing my sentence. Once I regain my composure, I add quietly, “I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.” I remove the ring box from my pocket, revealing what I was planning on giving Taylor on her birthday. Her mother gently touches the ring while tears stream down her face. I’m causing them more pain being here. I don’t want to do that. They’ll need to heal now.

  “I’ve taken up enough of your time. I do have one thing to ask you.” I pull out the CD copies I made holding all of my dad’s illegal secrets from my jacket pocket.

  Mr. Rappaport takes them from my hand, confusion masking his features. “What’s this?”

  “It’s an insurance policy. It’s a duplicate set of all the illegal activity my father and uncle have conducted over the past twenty-five years: tax fraud, bribery, and extortion. It’s all there. I have my own set.”

  He shakes his head and says,
“Trestan, we really don’t want to be responsible for this information.”

  “Sir, you never have to read it. I just want you to hold it, in case anything ever happens to me. If it does, please just hand them over to the authorities.”

  “Why not give it to them now?”

  “I’m leaving. I can’t stay here. I don’t belong here. My father’s family will not stop until they find me. I won’t make it easy for them. If they do, they’ll know it would be in their best interest to let me go. These files will help them do that.”

  Mr. Rappaport runs a hand over his face. “Trestan, I need to tell you this is not a good idea. It’s extremely dangerous. Son, you can’t run from who you are. It will catch up to you.”

  “Sir, this is not who I am. I’m in hell, and I need to finally live. I don’t care if you bury them in the backyard. I just needed someone to have them…someone I trust.”

  “Okay, Trestan. I’ll hold these for you.”

  “Thank you. I really appreciate you guys listening to me. I meant every word. I loved your daughter. She will forever be with me wherever I end up.”

  “Where will you go?” Mrs. Rappaport asks with concern.

  “I’d rather not say. The less you know, the better.” I stand to leave, and Mr. Rappaport places a hand on my shoulder.

  “Son, if you need us, for any reason, please let us know. You need to know someone back home believes you and supports you. Please check in and let us know you are okay.”

  I nod, choosing not to respond. I’ve never heard those words before from anyone in my life. They sound so foreign that they stun me into silence. I want to believe him, but I’ve found words can be meaningless. The less I’ve said throughout my life, the better. I’m not about to change that now.

  They both watch as I walk out the front door. I have one more stop to make before I leave Trestan Barton behind for good.