by Dirk Knight
Derrick doesn’t like thinking about this now, but he has been stuck in a state of morbid reflection (a phrase he had learned from his sponsor) since the last time he saw her. He had made a concerted effort to stop drinking after the death of his son; gone to a treatment facility, gone to AA meetings, spoken with his sponsor. He knows that he could have prevented it, all of it, had he not been at the bar that evening. His sponsor had told him that although things were bleak now, God was good and had a plan; that everything was ultimately for His plan and he would be better for the trials he had faced. Psychobabble Crap!– What AA didn’t do was keep him sober and teach him to accept “God’s Will” as the ultimate reason for anything horrible and everything good; what it did do was teach him to look at his part in the events of his life. He would never forgive himself for leaving his children with that monster.
Brenda had always been troubled and somewhat violent; she had struck Derrick and threatened him on numerous occasions. She had attempted suicide three times that he was sure of. Although the meth use had dwindled down over the years since Philip’s birth, she had continued to use other narcotics such as Vicodin and Oxycontin. Most of the violent exchanges in their household were a result of drugs and alcohol, but Brenda was beginning to show symptoms of a more serious problem by her 25th birthday. She was diagnosed with schizophrenia in the winter of 2005 shortly after she stabbed Derrick in the leg with a pair of scissors while he sat on the toilet. She was arrested and sent to an institution to be monitored. The medications helped her to stay level, and she was released to her husband’s care. He was usually good about administering her meds.
Usually… He thinks as he grabs his bottle of Jack Daniels and switches off the ignition to his Lincoln.
5.
From her son’s bedroom window, Brenda sees Derrick rounding the corner and making his way up the drive. She wasn’t expecting her husband home so soon. This won’t do at all she thinks as she realizes that Jayden isn’t with him. She lets loose a piercing shriek and storms away from the shuttered windows. Did I re-lock the front door? She wonders.
She ducks into Philip’s bathroom and suddenly remembers that she saw a Louisville Slugger, Philip’s lucky bat, jammed into the umbrella holder thingy by the front door. She makes a frantic dash, thinking this is going to be hairy as she rounds the corner to the hallway and sees Derrick’s considerable shadow in the window nearest the door. Just as she reaches the door, she slips and falls to one knee, her momentum carrying her into the carpet face first. Bolts of intense heat fill her cheek and jaw as she skids to a halt on the Berber carpet. She wants to scream again because the pain is so intense, but she fights her coughs of agony and pushes herself upright. Carpet tacks tear little divots from her face as she pulls away from the floor and she hears the key grind into the tumblers. On the other side of the door, she hears her estranged husband coughing. She pulls the baseball bat silently from its basket and darts back down the hallway to the first door on the left.
Where are my shoes? Oh hell, where are my shoes?
Brenda is in a full panic, heart pounding, gasping for breath but holding it at the same time. Her lungs are burning as if she were running a marathon. The right side of her face is red and flush from the excitement, but the red on the left side speckled with blood, the skin growing tighter already and her vision blurred from tears. She wonders how bad the damage is. The front door opens as she reaches Philip’s room; she turns the handle and eases the door closed, praying that it will not squeak into the jamb.
She hears Derrick shouting, asking after his intruder, “Hello, is anyone here?” Suddenly she knows where her shoes are. She left them at the door, next to the umbrella holder thing-a-ma-bob; just as she has for the past ten years, (her pet peeve was when the kids, or a drunken Derrick, would track mud through the house). He has seen the shoes, he knows I’m here. Why is she so scared? Isn’t this why she came here; to confront him for putting her in that awful place? They treated her so badly in there. It’s not right if that little demon isn’t here, too! Where is that sour little bitch?
She makes her way into the shower and is cowered down under the showerhead by the time she hears the bedroom door open. She is clutching her dead son’s Louisville Slugger so tightly that her knuckles are swollen and white. She can feel the rosin from his last at-bat sticking to her palms, squishing between her deadlocked digits. This isn’t what she had in mind, but she readies herself to club him if he gets to the shower curtain. He never does. The drunken buffoon could never remember that there was a bathroom in here when their son was alive and it was time to clean; why would he suddenly get a flash of brilliance now? She remains there, silent, until she hears a familiar clatter coming from the kitchen.
6.
Derrick, fearing that he, too, is becoming a paranoid schizophrenic, decides that he is wound too tight and that he needs to calm himself as he has suggested to his remaining child. He goes to the restroom to void his bladder, empties his pockets in search of his cheap cigarette lighter, and ignites a candle on the counter. It is something he has bought to promote relaxation, aromatherapy or some other crap; let it filter through the house.
He goes into the kitchen, over to the stove to put some water on the boil, grabbing a pot from under the sink and an oversized coffee mug from the dishwasher before starting the sink running. Once the fire is going he rummages through the cupboard for some herbal tea… Sleepy Time, he believes, is the appropriate choice to put an end to his blusterous week. The larger part of him feels that this is an experiment in futility. He has not been able to sleep some months now; the chances he will get forty winks tonight, while his child is away with those snooty blowhards, is slim to nil. “It’s worth a shot,” he mumbles to himself as he continues to watch the pot.
I should take out a little insurance policy, he thinks as he steps away from the stove. Derrick heads to his bedroom to retrieve the Xanax tucked away in his sock drawer. The scrip is written to Brenda, but he doesn’t think she will be here anytime soon to collect. Soul-stealing Junkie, I wish … I wish–I can’t even begin to decide when and where I should have been rid of you.
“I wish you wouldn’t have killed our son!” he shouts into the mirror above his dresser, confident that his reflection was the only other being in the home to hear his outburst.
He hits his knees, pulling his tie down with his right hand and unbuttoning his top button with a flick of the left. His sobs are empty and hollow. He has no more tears left to shed, but he wants, needs, the cleansing relief of genuine grief. His guilt and shame have blocked him from healing; sure, he cried, but he has never gotten past the anger. All he has accomplished in six months is to have been able to identify everything he has ever done wrong, and how that has affected the outcome of life’s situations. He opens the drawer to his left and produces a small tea-colored bottle with a childproof white cap.
He rises to his feet, determined to feel better tonight. He owes it to his daughter; he owes it to his son.
He hears the water starting to roll in the pot as he nears the kitchen. He has the pill bottle opened and a few little blue footballs in his palm. The brown paper sack is resting on the counter, worn through in the corner from the rain, and the weight of the bottle inside. He slaps his fingers to his nose as he rockets the Xanax into his gullet. The bourbon opens with a series of clicks as the plastic ring is snapped loose. This is the sound of the last bottle he will ever open.
He chases the pills with a long pull from the bottle of Jack. “Ahhhh” he hisses into his empty kitchen as he wipes his lips with the back of the hand that was holding the pills.
Weller reaches for the pot and pours the boiling water into the mug, dousing the Sleepytime tea bags already resting at the bottom. He will add the bourbon later. Don’t want to soak up good bourbon in a cheap tea bag, he thinks. With a quick twist of the wrist, he quiets the flame on the burner and turns toward the den.
The television snaps on loudly at the touch of his finger.
Initially tuning to the evening news, with the intention to be out cold by the time the little blonde starts the weather report, but internally debating Maybe I will pace myself to last until after the blonde has announced yet another week of freezing rain.
He thinks he hears something, but doesn’t react… It is his cell phone vibrating against the counter in the bathroom, where he left it while lighting his candle. The text, visible on the screen he never sees, reads, “OK, dad, I’m on my way.”
7.
Jayden has no more than gotten her coat off and parked her shoes at the door, a habit she picked up from her mother, and she is immediately relieved to have a night away from her father.
She really doesn’t care to be at a party full of bubbly teenage girls, but any port in a storm, she supposes. Sam doesn’t greet her at the door; instead it’s Cynthia, who had been gawking out the window moments ago while she said farewell to her dad. Mrs. Bingham points her towards Sam’s room, as if she were a total stranger, to put down her backpack.
The party is currently on the screened-in patio out back, probably because even though it is cold and rainy this seems to be the only place large enough to house that many bouncing little partygoers. Besides, there are gas heaters, like the ones you see on restaurant patios–of course there are; after all, this is their little princess’s big day. I think I am going to puke, Jayden thinks, making her way through the door to hand Sam her gift.
“Happy birthday, Sam,” Jayden says in a meek voice, barely audible over the din of the others.
Sam offers little acknowledgment as she points to the end of the table where the gifts are stacked and resumes conversation with the others.
Jayden’s iPhone vibrates in her back pocket, just once, a text: “Blue Jay, I need you to come home now honey. It’s important,” it reads.
You have got to be kidding me, Dad–but she would never say that… she has been very careful not to send him off the deep end since the happenings. Besides, he seemed adamant about her having a good time and letting him settle in at home for a night, so her guard snaps up immediately.
She walks in from the back patio, asks Samantha to excuse her (who pays no attention to the request because she is surrounded by chatty little tweens and is the belle of the ball), and dials her father’s phone as she walks back towards Samantha’s room, ultimately deciding to call from the pristine bathroom instead of the pristine bedroom at the end of the hall. The room really was disgustingly “Disney Princess” and far too childish for a girl turning fifteen.
She wonders–Is it Sam who has become so annoying, or have I just become a different person, a darker version of the Blue Jay since my mother was— Oh no!— Ringing— “Pick up, Dad!” she whimpers into the phone.— Ringing— Only one person ever called her Blue Jay.— It goes to voicemail on the third ring. The home phone is busy, so she tries the cell once more, again to no avail. Knowing that her mother has somehow gotten ahold of her dad’s phone, and little else about the situation, she sends a response—hoping her mother won’t know that she has caught the subtle hint—and conjures up a plan to liberate herself from the Bingham residence. It shouldn’t be hard while the festivities are in full swing.
She has no intention of asking Cynthia or Bob to leave their daughter’s fifteenth birthday party to escort her towards more misery and depression. She opts instead for a grand exit. The Bingham’s are hard at work in the kitchen, putting candles on a Hannah Montana cake, getting the Sony Handy Cam’s lens cap off, making sure the battery is amply charged, and all the other inane crap hovering parents do for spoiled brats.
They are such phonies. She realizes again that she has grown sick of this family. They are always so involved and happy. Such a positive place to be… it’s like Samantha poops rainbows and butterflies. She knows in her heart that it is an illusion and that they are no better than anyone else. What they do have is money, though, and that makes her jealous. Samantha gets whatever she wants, all the time.
Her phone vibrates in her pocket again, increasing her frustration. She reluctantly looks to the message and reads, “Jay baby you need to hurry”. She suddenly becomes nauseous, scared sick for her father.
The kitchen is the only path through the house to the front door. The back yard is in full view of the party, so hopping the fence is out. She can’t afford to lay low until they decide to blow out the candles. What if they have them come inside to the table to have cake? What then?
Jayden is crafty when she needs to be. Philip taught her plenty before the end (he wasn’t bright, but he had knowledge that is usually only learned through experience). She walks from the cover of the bathroom towards Sam’s room and her knapsack where her tiny hands emerge from her bag with a pack of Pall Mall Cigarettes and a little orange Bic lighter stuffed into the cellophane pouch. She begins to tear the Miley Cyrus posters from the walls and the papers from the desk and creates a substantial pile of litter under the foot of Sam’s bed.
“I’m sorry about your bed, Sammy, but you are a bratty snob,” she mumbles as she spins the striker, the flame. The kindling catches quickly and produces thick smoke. The flames begin to spread and Jayden locks in on the beauty of their orange heat. Within a few seconds, the comforter has caught and the fire’s glow is warm enough to feel on her face. It is the last warmth her face will ever feel.
She creeps again to the hallway and towards the kitchen, ducking into the last door of the hallway, the master bedroom. Just as she slips into the room, Cynthia walks by with the cake (Bob in tow holding the camera) on her way to the patio table. Jayden sees Bob’s golf bag in the corner of their room and decides that taking a souvenir might not be a bad idea. She pokes her head out of the master bedroom cautiously holding a Callaway three-wood behind her back–but there is no one to see her. They didn’t see the smoke as they walked past and are now on the patio, starting to sing–of course, no one has noticed that she isn’t in the chorus.
Jayden makes her move and is out the door before the candles are out. No distraction was needed, it turns out, but she chuckles, anyway. By the time she has reached the end of the block, smoke is pouring from the open windows. Flames are licking the vinyl siding and pooling under the overhangs of the roof.
Her eyes reflect the flame, but as she turns away, her eyes stay alight, starting to glimmer with madness. She continues home to confront her crazy mother, certain that her wreck of a father isn’t up to the task.
8.
Derrick is beginning to feel a pretty good buzz from the pills. The booze he has grown quite tolerant of, but he rarely dabbles with pills; that was Brenda’s deal. He doesn’t often reminisce about the Blow and the Crank and has stayed pretty well clean since the kids came into the picture. He chose to drink instead, so drink he does. Having made a choice to go into insurance sales when the boy was three and Bren was pregnant with Jayden–he couldn’t afford the kids he had on the wages of a telemarketer—he was forced to work with his dad, who had done insurance sales Derrick’s whole life, and had a spot for him on the floor. The appeal was that Derrick could continue to do most of his work over the phone. Two things you need to know about insurance sales: the job is lucrative, and it will drive you to drink.
The news announced something to stay tuned for after the break. He has completely lost interest by the time the Mexican anchorwoman all but shouted that there was a live report.
“We have breaking news from Hamilton County tonight! Here with the update: Randal Jackson.”
“Thanks, Susan, I’m here outside of the Miller Jones Women’s Correctional Facility, and as you may be able to tell from the buzz around me, they are on high alert. Earlier today, three dangerous inmates escaped from custody and fled the grounds. Now, they are not releasing names at this time, but a Department of Corrections spokesperson has asked that we warn citizens that the escaped women are considered armed and extremely dangerous.– ”
Derrick is in shock from the moment the camera shows spotlights racing around the yard an
d he recognizes his wife’s new home on the 6:00 news. A hot coal strikes his stomach somewhere near the bottom as he remembers his uneasiness when entering the house this afternoon. He looks back to the door and there it is, bigger than ever–how the hell did I miss that?–little orange slippers perfectly stacked at the entryway, just to the right of his; just to the right of the shoes he was wearing when he got home. He had stared right at those little orange warning lights and went right on through the intersection.
He leans forward to position his body weight over his wobbly legs and begins to force his substantial mass from the couch. Just as he does so he sees a reflection above the label of his bottle of Tennessee sippin’ whisky. He starts a sharp yelp that is cut off by the bat in his wife’s hands. The crunch of the hardened maple splitting his scalp is deafening. He sees it just in time to tense, but the damage is done. Crashing to the floor, his hands sprawling for something, anything to catch his fall, he rises up from his knees and takes a clumsily big step forward, tripping over the glass table in the center of the room. His body pitches forward. Blood pours through the remaining hair of his balding head and into his eyes, blinding him; his head feels as if were a yoga ball full of cement.
Another blow glances off the edge of his crown and slides down the side of his face, nearly detaching his left ear, and crashes into his shoulder, breaking his collarbone with an audible snap. This time he bellows loud enough to rattle the windows as he falls. The scream sounds distant, alien, as if somehow he is hearing the scream from a different night, a separate tragedy. He turns to face his attacker. He is not surprised to see Brenda standing over him. She swings once more, striking him squarely in the back of the skull. He does not stagger, he does not buck; Derrick goes completely limp and falls face forward onto the tile surrounding the fireplace. Lights out.
