by David Horne
Overtime, all the fame and popularity and perks had begun to positively reinforce it in Brett’s head that soccer was what made him valued. He’d begun to believe it was his purpose. It didn’t hurt the situation that Brett loved it. He loved being on the pitch, and feeling the wind, and running and tackling.
But ever since the injury, working with animals had provided Brett with a much-needed respite from…reality. That was pretty much all he was good at, or for, these days. Animals didn’t judge, they didn’t mock, and they didn’t tease.
Animals didn’t hold grudges, they didn’t discriminate, they didn’t have ulterior motives and more importantly, animals never let you down.
They simply…were.
There’s a quote Brett had once heard that he would never forget until his dying day. It always struck a chord with him, but over the past five years, it’s like it became even more crucial to him.
A wise man once said that sometimes things have to fall apart to make way for better things. Brett knew that most sayings were a pile of bull, but he hoped to God that this one wasn’t.
Chapter Six
The journey home was a long one, but Brett liked it like that. In recent months, he’d discovered cycling to be quite therapeutic. It was like one day after a few weeks of owning a bike, Brett suddenly realized why people do it. Nor did it only help keep you in shape, it was actually a pretty eco-friendly way of getting you from A to B. The planet wasn’t going to save itself.
Brett was pretty pleased with the bike he had. It was easily the most valuable thing that he owned. The bike itself was top of the range, or near enough, cost just north of a thousand dollars, and weighed less than half of what Brett did. It was a sleek, carbon fiber machine. Brett didn’t make a huge amount of money looking after animals, and he was by no means rich, but Brett had had enough to get himself a decent bike after he’d sold his Harley.
Ever since Brett’s injury, riding a motorcycle on the road with his condition turned from a struggle to difficult to downright dangerous. Eventually, Brett had ended up in court and the Department of Transportation took his license. So eventually, Brett had come to the conclusion that he didn’t need it anymore, so he’d sold it. That Harley wasn’t exactly a treasured possession anyhow. All it did was bring back bad memories.
That was the same bike that Brett had used to go on his first date in high school. Lindsay Walker, her name was. She was the quintessential “popular high school girl.” Blonde hair, tiny waist, on the cheerleading squad, absolute bitch to everyone.
Brett and Lindsay had gone for a ride around the campus on his Harley, then stopped to check out the sunset. Things were getting pretty hot and heavy until they weren’t. Brett just wasn’t into it, and he’d known exactly why. That entire date had been a bad idea from day one. She wasn’t into Brett at all, she just wanted the publicity of dating a guy on the soccer team. But it takes two to tango, and Brett hadn’t been into Lindsay either. He’d just taken her out to prove to himself that he wasn’t gay. Which, as any gay person would’ve been happy to tell Brett, doesn’t actually make a damn bit of difference.
After that day, Brett had decided to put relationships and dating on the back burner and focus on the team and on training. At the time, he’d thought he’d made a good call. Brett did end up making Captain after all, but now, he wasn’t so sure. One mistake, one sloppy tackle, and his career was done. And Brett had never felt more alone in his life. Sure, he still had his parents, but it wasn’t the same thing. Not by a long shot.
Brett and his parents lived in a little cottage a few kilometers away from The Old General Store, so a fair distance if you were walking, but on his bike it took Brett all of ten minutes. That was him riding slowly. Brett gently coasted off the lane and into the yard before he came to a gentle halt, dismounted and wheeled his bike around the side of the house to prop it up against the wall.
Brett’s mom was there, in the yard, standing in front of the house. It was undeniable that Brett got his looks from his mother. They had the same tousled brown hair, though she’d cut her hers short to keep it out of her face. They also had the same hazel-colored eyes, the same complexion, the same tapered fingers and both of their jawlines were set at the exact same angle. Sandra Evans wore an apron over her blouse and had a filthy paintbrush clamped between her teeth as she dabbed swabs of paint onto a canvas held up by a big wooden easel.
As she saw Brett, she waggled her fingers by way of saying “hello” and went back to painting. Brett leaned over her shoulder to see what she was working on. He wasn’t surprised to see an impressionist recreation of their house - it was all she liked painting. Except her versions were almost always surrounded by frolicking hares, daffodils, luscious grass and twittering birds. Sandra definitely carried the artist’s gene in their family. Brett still remembered the first time he’d called her talented.
She’d smiled, patted Brett’s cheek with a paint-stained hand and said, “I don’t have any talent, Brett darling, only skill.” Yeah. Humble. That was Mom.
Sandra reached up, took the paintbrush from her mouth and tucked it behind her ear. “How was your day, dear?”
Brett shrugged as if to say “so-so.”
Sandra gave her son an understanding look. “You still having trouble speaking?”
Brett nodded. “A little,” he managed.
Sandra nodded sympathetically. “Well, the doctors say it can only get better from here on, right?”
Brett rolled his eyes. “I got the grocer-,” Brett suddenly faltered, as if his brain had suddenly shut down. He felt his cheeks going hot. He hated when this happened. Brett paused and gave himself time to calm down. “The groceries,” he managed. “I got th-them.”
Sandra did what she always did in those situations, which was pretend she hadn’t noticed, which Brett loved her for. It wasn’t the fact that the game Brett loved had turned him into a blithering idiot, it was the fact that the game he loved had turned him into a blithering idiot and a blithering idiot who felt so pathetic about it. That was much worse.
“Nice work,” Brett added, inclining his head toward his mom’s painting.
“Thank you, bum fluff,” Sandra said sweetly.
Brett gave her a look. “Mom. We ta-talked about that.”
“What, so I can’t call you bum fluff anymore?” Sandra asked, sounding offended, but Brett could hear her tone of voice, and he knew she was amused.
“No, you can’t!” Brett exclaimed.
“You didn’t mind it when you were a little munchkin,” Sandra murmured, as she smeared white paint on her middle finger and started dabbing daisies all around her picturesque cottage.
“Okay, mom, I’m g-going inside,” Brett faltered again, but he too pretended to not have noticed. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s making dinner,” said a voice from behind him. Brett turned to see his Dad, Jerry Taylor standing by the open front door. Anyone who saw the two of them standing together would have trouble believing that Jerry and Brett were related. They looked nothing alike - Jerry was stocky whereas Brett was wiry and lanky. Jerry had a thick beard, whereas everyone knew full well that Brett couldn’t grow any facial hair if his life depended on it. Lastly, Jerry’s eyes were as blue as the sky whereas Brett’s were hazel.
Jerry was holding a clear mixing bowl under his arm with a metal whisk and was expertly whipping something light and creamy.
“You?” Brett tried to cover up his surprise. “Cooking?”
“Hey!” Jerry exclaimed. “I can cook, you know!”
“I know, right?” Sandra grinned, without taking her eyes off of her painting. “He just hardly ever does, because he’s a lazy so-and-so. He makes a mean shepherd’s pie, though. That’s like ninety percent of the reason I married him.”
“Get it right, dear,” Jerry said in a bored voice. “My shepherd’s pie is one hundred percent of the reason you married me, let’s not get it twisted.”
Sandra giggled. “You’re right, dear. I a
m so lucky to have that shepherd’s pie, to have and to hold until death do us part.”
“Don’t sell yourself short there, Sandra, I’m the lucky one,” Jerry said seriously. “I’m glad I knocked you up while I had the chance.”
Brett’s eyes went back and forth between his parents like he could barely believe what he was hearing. “Okay, guys, if you’re finished with your cheesy little sex jokes, I’m going inside.”
As Brett walked past him, Jerry nudged his son with his elbow. “Hey, slugger. You are our cheesy little sex joke, you know that, right?”
Brett made an exasperated noise and pushed past him, but they both knew that Brett did so with a smile on his face. Brett’s Dad was a funny guy when he wanted to be. He was definitely the joker in the family.
Brett continued into the kitchen, swung his backpack down off of his back and began putting the groceries away into the fridge. As he worked, Sandra came back into the house, hung up her apron and began rinsing her hands off in the sink.
“Did you remember to get those chips your Dad likes?” she asked conversationally.
“Yes, Mom, I got the chips,” Brett said in a half bored, half annoyed tone. “It only took you and Dad reminding me four times apiece, and those notes he keeps leaving on the fridge.”
Brett swung the fridge door closed. Sure enough, there a group of post-it notes stuck to the fridge with a variety of scribblings on them that included but were not limited to; “Get more Doritos,” “Brett, if you go shopping please remember to pick up more Doritos” and “Whoever keeps eating my Doritos, please stop.”
Sandra stifled a laugh. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”
Brett rolled his eyes, crumpled up the shopping bag and tossed it onto the counter top. Sandra watched him carefully as he filled a tall glass with milk from the jug in the fridge and leaned on the side, raising the glass to his lips. “So, are you going to tell me?”
Brett looked at over the top of his glass and finished his sip before answering. “Tell you what?”
“Tell me whatever it is that’s on your mind,” Sandra clarified, folding her arms.
Brett rolled his eyes. “Mom. Seriously. There’s nothing on my mind.”
Sandra gave a very loud and very obvious fake yawn.
“What?” Brett exclaimed.
“Really, Brett?” Sandra gave her son the most condescending look that she could muster. “Nothing’s on your mind, that’s what you’re going to go with?”
“It’s the truth,” Brett said. “So, I don’t care if you believe it or not.”
“Give me a little bit more credit than that, Brett, dear,” Sandra said in a bored voice. “I know my son better than that. I know when something is bothering him. So out with it.”
“It’s nothing, mom,” Brett said.
Sandra sighed. “Fine. Have it your way. I hoped we wouldn’t have to resort to this, but since you don’t want to tell me—”
“Mom, no!”
“Go put it on,” Sandra said.
“Mom, seriously, I don’t feel like it today,” Brett said seriously.
“Do I have to get your Dad?” Sandra looked at Brett over the top of her glasses, and Brett knew it was game over.
“Jerry!” Sandra called. A few moments later, Brett’s dad came into the kitchen.
“What’s up?” Jerry asked, his eyes narrowed. “Did Brett forget to pick up my Doritos?”
“No, your Doritos are in the fridge,” Sandra said. “I still don’t know for the life of me why you want to keep them there, but we’ll talk about that another time.”
“It keeps them fresh,” Jerry complained. “The cold offsets the spiciness perfectly.”
“Jerry, I said we’ll talk about it another time,” Sandra said sternly.
“What did you call me in here for then?” Jerry asked.
“Something’s on Brett’s mind,” Sandra said. “And he refuses to tell me what it is.”
Jerry’s face lit up. He looked at Brett with a grin. “All right, boy. Go put it on.”
“Dad, do we have to?” Brett sighed. “I already told Mom I don’t feel like it.”
“If you don’t want to, then tell your mother what’s eating you,” Jerry shrugged. “If not, you know what you have to say. Sandra, please repeat the question.”
Sandra smiled. “So. Brett. Will you tell me what’s wrong?”
Brett sighed exasperatedly. They were in for a long afternoon. “I decline to answer,” he said in a bored voice. “Pursuant to my fifth amendment rights.”
Jerry Evans was a lawyer, one of the founding partners at the town’s only law firm, Evans, Johnson & West. When Brett was younger, he didn’t see much of his father on account of him being busy at work, but as Jerry Evans made his way up the pecking order, he figured out a new way to bring his work home with him. He taught his wife and son all of the legal jargon, the “lawyer-speak” that he learned at law school and they began to re-enact cases with him, with his wife as the judge and Brett as the “opposing counsel.”
Eventually, Sandra adopted the system as a way to solve all manner of child-rearing issues. If Brett did something wrong, she would write up a mock subpoena and then “take him to court.” If Brett could defend his actions, or she failed to prove he did it, then Brett would walk. Brett felt like he’d outgrown this system years back, but he’d moved back into his parents’ house on the condition that he paid rent, did the shopping once a week, and they brought the system back.
“Excellent!” Jerry rubbed his hands together. “I’ll set everything up, you two go and get changed.”
Brett couldn’t resist smiling, in spite of himself - the excitement on his Dad’s face really was worth it all sometimes.
He went up to his room and spent ten minutes throwing things around his room looking for the only tie he owned before he changed into a three-piece black suit and went back into the lounge, doing up his cuffs as he went. Brett grabbed an empty file folder from the small stationery cupboard at the foot of the staircase just to make it look like he knew what he was doing and walked into the lounge.
His parents looked more than ready. Jerry had moved the desk from his study into the lounge and sat in his swivel chair behind it, looking like a kid on Christmas morning. He wore a black poncho that was obviously supposed to be judge’s robes and was spinning a gavel in his hands.
Sandra was perched on the edge of Jerry’s desk, wearing a red pencil skirt, a matching blazer, and crimson high-heeled shoes. She suddenly looked all businesslike.
“Brett,” she said, nodding curtly as he appeared in the doorway.
“Mother,” Brett nodded back just as curtly. He took his folder and tossed it down on the lounge table. “There’s still time to back out of this, you know.”
“I was about to say the exact same thing,” Sandra grinned. “But for you. Because, you know, I’m winning two for two this month.”
It was true - out of the two cases that they’d set up over the past month, Brett’s mom had won both. But that was all about to change, at least it was in Brett’s opinion.
“What can I say, she learned from the best,” Jerry grinned widely. “So, you two. Your opening statements please.”
“If I may, Your Honor,” Sandra said, in a sycophantic tone that made Brett roll his eyes. “We’re here today because Counsellor Brett Evans is withholding information that is instrumental to the smooth running of this household.”
“Right,” Jerry said. “Brett, would you like to counter-sue?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Brett nodded.
“On what grounds?” Sandra asked.
“On the grounds that there’s nothing bothering me, and I’d like her to get off my back,” Brett said sarcastically.
Sandra laughed. “We’ll see.”
“Okay, Sandra, call your first witness,” Jerry said importantly.
Brett rolled his eyes. There wasn’t a lot of choice, so he wasn’t at all surprised when Sandra said:
�
��Your Honor, I call Brett Evans to the stand.”
“I saw that coming,” Brett murmured.
He got up, straightened his jacket and strode up to Jerry’s desk.
Jerry opened one of his drawers and took out a hardback bible.
Brett made a face. “Dad. Really? A bible?”
“I’m kicking things up a notch,” Jerry winked. He held out the bible. “Raise your right hand, please.”
Brett placed his left hand on the Bible and raised his right in the air. “I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the tru—"
“Wait!” Jerry snapped. “You’ve got to let me ask.”
Sandra stifled another laugh at her husband’s outburst.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you, God?” Jerry asked seriously.
“I swear,” Brett nodded.
“Good,” Sandra grinned. “Now, if you lie to my next question, you’ve committed perjury—”
“I know how the game works,” Brett snapped.
Sandra rolled her eyes. She flipped open the folder she’d brought with her. “Your Honor, here I have pictures taken years ago of the witness in question. See how his eyebrows are raised, his nostrils are flared? He does that whenever something’s bothering him.”
Brett was surprised. “What?” he asked, going unexpectedly high-pitched.
“Oh yeah, take a look,” Sandra grinned. “Remember when you started that video diary? Back in third grade when you were scared of the other kids finding your diary, so you decided to record yourself and password-protect the files? Kind of backward thinking, really, but you were eight, so we let you do it. The day you talked about not getting picked for the soccer squad in elementary. I took these screenshots.”
She passed some printed out photos across to Brett, who took them. He was young. His hair was shorter and distinctly lighter, and he was noticeably chubbier. Brett remembered the day like it was yesterday. He’d played as hard as he could at the tryouts and still not been picked for the first team. He’d felt like crying the whole way home.
“Objection,” Brett said immediately.
