by R.M. Haig
September 12th, 2016. 1:15PM
Burlwood, Indiana
Nikki tried to peer into the windows of eighteen seventy Maplewood, hoping that her knock was ignored simply because Jake was still asleep inside. She'd known he was living just a few hundred yards from her trailer since the night of the race track incident, because his car made a very unique clicking when it drove and she plainly heard him returning from wherever he went after dropping her off.
Having last seen him in the midst of a pretty severe panic attack, she was worried that there'd been no sign of his stirring since she made the long walk home the night before. There had been lights on in the living area, and they'd stayed on for most of the night -- at least until she herself went to bed just after two in the morning.
To her dismay, the lights were still on. In her mind, that meant that either he had not gone to bed or that he was, instead, sleeping a more eternal sleep. The type that's not disturbed by the annoyance of a burning lamp or a knocking at the door.
She walked around the whole trailer trying to see through windows, but none offered her a glimpse of what was happening inside. Returning to the front, she approached the Malibu and checked it out to be sure there was no mistake that it was his. As she cupped her hands on the windshield and looked in, she saw a familiar bottle of eye drops on the floor. They had apparently fallen out again when the glovebox was opened, and it was still in that condition. Satisfied that this was definitely Jake's ride, her worrying only increased at that fact that he wouldn't answer her knocks at the door.
Stepping back from the car, she looked down Oakwood and was spooked for a second when she saw a strange glimmer in the periphery of her vision. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she looked down the road and saw a large, dark sedan parked about a block down in the distance. Its windshield was tinted limo-black, and she figured it was possible that it had caught a ray of sun through the rolling clouds, causing the odd flash. She waited a moment to see if it would happen again, because in her mind the flare more closely resembled the flash of a camera than a random reflection off of the glass. There was no repeat performance in the few seconds of attention she gave it, but her patience for the minor mystery had passed, so she turned away.
Determined to be sure Jake was okay, she moved back to the front door and knocked a little harder than she had before. When even that was ignored, she began knocking constantly, hoping for anything but what she was thinking. She knew he was suffering, she knew he was struggling, and she was all too familiar with the urge to make the pain stop when things just get to be too much to bear any longer. He may have reached that point in his panic attack, and he seemed a prime candidate for suicide. Mortified, she prayed as she waited for a response that working on the case of his old friend was enough motivation to keep the man alive, even through an episode as bad as the night before had been.
When there was still no answer, she felt her heart beginning to pump heavily and her breathing becoming strained. In no mood for a panic attack of her own, she promptly fetched a Xanax from her purse and let it dissolve under her tongue. Feeling instant relief, she decided she would try to find a way to get into the trailer to be sure that all was well. To her surprise, she found the doorknob of the front entrance turned freely and the door started to open when spun it.
"Jacob?" She called softly as she stuck her face into the living area, relieved that she wouldn't have to physically break in.
She recoiled and gagged when the smell inside hit her nose, the pungent aromas of old garbage and vomit making her eyes water immediately. After pulling back for a moment, she plugged her nostrils with her fingers and opened the door wide enough for her to step in.
The first thing she saw inside was Jake, naked and sprawled out on his stomach atop a raggedy looking couch with his left arm hanging loosely over the edge. Looking closer, she saw that he had a nearly empty fifth of Jack Daniels dangling from his loosened fingers.
"So much for not drinking," she said quietly to herself.
Not far from his hand was a pool of puke, which was the source of one of the foul odors that was still somehow finding a way to creep into her sinuses. Just outside of the mess was a rather large looking handgun, which turned her on as much as it terrified her. Her heart dropped at seeing it, but the lack of spattered blood gave her hope that he hadn't used it... not on himself, at least.
Taking a few cautious steps toward him, she watched his chest and lower back for any sign that he was breathing. When she saw his ribs expanding, she sighed in great relief. With that worry for his life out of the way, she took a moment to examine his ravishing physique before going to wake him up. His back was sculpted, as though he spent many hours working to make it so, and his arms were wide and powerful looking. His ass was firm and round, and the thighs that extended from it were thick and toned. His tree-trunk looking upper legs led into calves that were equally defined and muscular, and his feet were large and manly, if a bit hairy.
Her first instinct in seeing him this way was to tickle him and make him roll over, in order to expose his chest, his abs and -- well -- the rest of him. Concerned about his humility and still a bit worried about his wellbeing, she moved to the head of the couch and put a hand on his shoulders instead. His flesh was cool and clammy, his body covered in beads of sweat from his head to his toes. Rubbing gently at his back, she spread his perspiration around as she leaned close to his ear to try and rouse him.
"Jake, sweetie," she whispered, changing tactics and running her fingers through his dripping wet hair. This seemed awfully personal, but also very natural. Hoping she wasn't encroaching, she continued to whisper. "Jake, are you okay baby?"
Her second effort made him stir a bit, leading him to lift his head which revealed a trail of vomit and drool running out of his mouth, which was not attractive in the least. He mumbled something in response to her prodding, but it was totally unintelligible and meant he was still sleeping deeply.
"Jacob, honey," she continued. "It's after one, I need you to wake up so that I know you're okay."
Again he grumbled and stirred, but showed no interest in waking. Frustrated with her lack of progress and deciding that a change in technique was indicated, she took her hand off of him and stepped back a bit.
"JAKE!" She shouted this time, and immediately his head snapped up.
His eyes were glassy and bloodshot as they looked upon her in shock, his mouth agape and still dripping with slobber. He planted his hands on the couch in surprise and lifted his upper body a bit, exposing a flash of his dangling penis that made Nikki's eyebrows raise instinctively. It only took him a moment to gather what was happening, but in that moment she thoroughly surveyed his dark and curly pubic region and what hung freely below.
"Jesus!" He slurred in shock, dropping his frame back into the couch with authority and shame. "What the fuck is going on?"
"I was hoping that you would tell me!" She answered with a subconscious grin. "You scared the shit out of me last night, I thought I was gonna find you dead in here!"
Full awareness coming to him slowly, he thrust his hand underneath him to cover his manhood, even though it was presently wedged between two cushions and felt a bit twisted around by the force he'd planted it with.
"How the hell did you get in here?" He asked. "How the hell did you know I was here at all?"
"First off," she began as she casually walked into the kitchen with her teeny purse to find paper towels or something similar to address the puke, "you left the door unlocked. That's not very wise in this neck of the woods, not anymore at least. Second, you've got the newest yet junkiest sounding car in all of the park! It didn't take rocket science to figure out that you were staying here, everybody on the block can hear you come and go!"
With her out of sight, he scanned the floor around the couch for his underwear. Only then did he see the vomit and the empty bottle of Jack. He had little recollection of what had happened the nigh
t before, but there was a vague hint of a memory that involved stopping at a local liquor store and pounding the stuff he bought down hard. Pissed at himself but more concerned about getting dressed, he found his pair of boxer briefs near the foot of the couch. Checking the entrance to the kitchen to be sure she wasn't watching, he leapt to his feet and dove into them with both legs at once.
"Good God!" He heard Nikki exclaim just after the sound of the trash can opening. "Don't you ever take this shit out?"
He didn't answer, looking for the rest of his clothes instead. They were nowhere to be found, which sucked because he hardly knew this girl in Chucky's trailer. She'd already seen more of him than he would've liked, and he was eager to be sure it was limited that momentary glance alone. He needed to take a piss, which was making things stand up and stand out, even through his black underwear. That was certainly not something he wanted her to see.
To his relief, he heard the sounds of the full bag being pulled from the trash can. That meant he had a few moments to address his growing issue, because she was involved with cleaning. He stumbled to the bathroom, as hungover as he could possibly be, as Nikki tossed the garbage out the back door and put a new liner in the bin. Finding that the toilet was full of yak as well was a surprise to him, as was the fact his clothes seemed to be soaking wet in the bathtub for some reason that he couldn't readily explain. Clearly, he would have to get to the hallway closet, where he stashed his bag, and find something different to put on. He pissed into the vomit and flushed it all first, then set off to finding something to wear.
Leaning around the door frame like a police officer engaged in a tense gun battle, he spotted Nikki on the floor scrubbing his polish sausage and fries out of the carpet with a brush. She was pretty focused on her task, so he darted out of the bathroom with his rear intentionally pointed towards her, so as not to reveal what she would probably like to see revealed. With a few quick steps, he reached and tore open the closet, yanking his bag out and retreating back to the lavatory. The clothes at the top happened to be a button down black shirt with epaulets and a pair of distressed denim jeans, an outfit Tracy always said he looked sexy in. He didn't intend for them to have that effect on Nikki, but it seemed to him that he could wear My Little Pony pajamas and she would still want to fondle him. Leaping into the clothes, he buttoned the shirt before washing his face and straightening our his disheveled hair in the mirror.
His head ringing, he opened Chucky's medicine cabinet and found a bottle of Tylenol right where he had put it, next to the box of Trojans. The graphic on the front of the condom package made his mind wander, and that started things back to stirring. Thankfully, those things were well compressed beneath the jeans and wouldn't likely be an issue.
Seizing control of his thoughts, he took three capsules from the bottle of pain relievers and swallowed them with a handful of water from the sink. Noticing his eyes were fucked, he wished he'd brought his Rohto drops in instead of leaving them in the glovebox of the Malibu. That brought another hazy recollection of trying to use them the night before after drinking a good deal of liquor sitting in the car in Chucky's driveway. Hitting himself with a blast of his Acqua Di Gio, he sighed at his condition and shyly made his way to the living room.
Nikki had finished scrubbing the carpet with Resolve, which she must've found under Chucky's sink. There was now a cleaner looking section of rug as compared to the rest where his stomach contents used to be, and it appeared the carpet used to be a much lighter shade of beige than it was at present. Rising from her knees, she took the dirtied brush and a wad of soiled paper towel into the kitchen. She gagged a bit as she dumped everything into the fresh garbage bag she had installed, she wasn't much a fan of puke, but dirty times bring dirty responsibilities. Jake watched her appreciatively as she rinsed her hands afterwards, still feeling anger at himself for resorting to the bottle in concert with shame at having been discovered in such a state by a girl he rather liked.
"Thank you," he said humbly to her as she walked back into the room.
"Don't mention it," she replied, "if I had a dollar for every time someone cleaned up after me?"
"Still," he said, "you didn't have to do that."
"No, I didn't," she acknowledged.
"And I'm sorry about --" he paused, searching for words as he felt his face starting to blush. "The whole --"
"About the fact that I saw your ass and cock?" She declared plainly.
Jake nodded, feeling the blush all over his body now.
"It's okay," she continued. "Believe it or not, I've seen men naked before, you look much the same as most of them." Looking down to the floor, where his eyes were also trained, she indicated the gun with her foot. "You might want to clean that, it looks like it got a bit of the puke in it."
"Shit!" He exclaimed, realizing the Beretta was there for the first time. He quickly snatched it up, hoping not to scare her with the fact that he carried it, and stuffed it into the waistband of his jeans. Only then did he feel the liquid leaking out of the barrel and running down his leg. That sucked, and it was even more reason that he was going to need a shower before he went about the rest of his day.
"Now, I said cleaning up wasn't a problem," she said, "but I didn't say I did it for free."
Puzzled, he cocked his head and looked at her. "Okay?" He asked curiously. "What do I owe you, then?"
"Skating lessons," she replied quickly, as though she already had her payment plan in mind.
"What?" He wondered, confused.
"I've always wanted to learn to ice skate," she explained, "and you were some hot-shot hockey player back in the day. I figure that makes you a good guy to teach me, so that's what I want in return for cleaning up after you."
"Look, Nikki," he shook his head, "I've got a lot of work --"
"Sorry," she interrupted with a smile. "It's not negotiable!"
Rolling his eyes, he thought about how she'd made him feel at the carnival the night before. It had been awkward for him, but it had also been pleasurable. He loved it as much as he hated it, as much as it seemed wrong to him. Weighing those feelings against the bleak and black emotions he'd been engulfed in for the entirety of this investigation, he decided that there was room in his schedule for a diversion. Even if he maintained his determination to keep Nikki as no more than a friend, surely he could make time for something a bit more positive than death and dismemberment.
"I can bring the puke back out and spread it around again, if you want," she insinuated.
"No no," he replied. Summing it all up in his mind, he nodded slowly and locked in on her gray eyes once again. "When and where?" He asked.
"Garthby Ice House," she replied with no hesitation again. "Tomorrow morning, free skate from twelve to two. I assume you know where the place is?"
"Oh yeah," Jake confirmed. "I'm quite familiar with it."
"Good," she replied. "I have to get to work for the evening at the moment, but I expect to meet you there at eleven forty-five sharp tomorrow! Don't make me come find you again, because that'll make the price go up!"
"I'll be there," he smiled, reading pleasure and desire in her face.
"Well, until then, I guess," she said, simply walking off toward the front door.
Watching her go, he noted the swaying of her hips as she moved. It seemed exaggerated as compared to her normal stride, and it seemed very obviously intentional. She didn't look back at him, which was a good thing because he was wearing a crooked grin at what he saw. A grin of charm, a grin of infatuation and a grin of raging libido. He never had much of a poker face, and this instance was no exception.
Ashamed, he wiped the trespass from his face immediately and reported to the kitchen to take care of his gun, which was still dripping stomach acid down his leg. Grabbing his phone along the way, he realized he had several missed calls and voicemails. He also saw the time, which he didn't like at all. His indiscretion the night before had cost him ho
urs of potential work, and that was a disservice to Chucky that he couldn't forgive. He lit a cigarette to get the morning started and to smoke the taste of liquor and vomit from his mouth, then set about forming a plan for the day.
Placing his gun on the counter, he checked his email before doing anything else. There was nothing exciting, save for a message from Donnell via LeTonya. It was short and sweet, reading I've got LeTonya working on FGSI, and I found the registration for my old man's Brougham. Attached was an image of the card, which gave the old plate number and VIN. He saved it to his phone for future reference and comparison to the gate car at the downs, then dialed his voicemail and switched on the speaker so that he could listen while he disassembled his Beretta.
The first message was from Clyde Rambo, who was seeking information related to Chucky's case. Making a mental note to call him back later, Jake deleted the message and listened to the next. The second was from an Indianapolis phone number, and the voice that spoke was old and feeble.
"Hello?" It said in a crackle. "This is Joseph Blake, I'm returning a phone call I got from you yesterday. I have no plans for the afternoon, so please call back if I can be of any assistance."
Making another mental note, he saved that particular message and waited for the third to play. As he popped the slide off of his Beretta, the computerized female voice that moderated his messages gave an introduction that he never would've expected.
"Next message," she said. "Received today at eleven thirty-eight AM, from,"
There was a pause, then a hauntingly familiar man spoke his name. "Nick Swete."
Freezing solid, Jake listened intently to the pleading voice of a man that had done so much for him over the course of his life. A man that had taken responsibilities that weren't his to assume through the kindness of his heart and the caring of his soul. A man that had shaped Jacob Gigu?re in ways that he probably didn't even realize. A man who cared for him, a man who loved him.
"Jake, it's me... Nick," he said, and Jake's heart sank. "Listen, Jake, I know that you've got a lot going on right now. I know that you and Tracy are having -- problems. I'm not going to pretend that I know what you're going through, because I don't... but I want you to know that we're all very worried about you. We love you, Jake, all of us... Tracy included. She told me you were going back to Burlwood, and I can't imagine what that must be like for you." There was a pause, then a heavy sigh. "Look, Jacob, will you just call me please? We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to talk about, I just need to hear from you to know that you're okay. I'm on your side, buddy, just like always, and I want to help you in any way that I can. Just call me, Jake... please, just call me."
By the time the message ended, every inch of Jake's body and every neuron in his mind was numb and cold. Feeling too weak to stand, he reported immediately to one of the chairs around Chucky's dining table. His heart palpitated, his breathing intensified and he felt a physical flush of warmth move through him. Sighing himself, he buried his face in his trembling hands.
He would finish cleaning his gun later, he needed to get into the shower now. He needed to wash all the sweat, the vomit, the shame and the humiliation off of him. It was fortunate, really, that the gun was dirty. It was a spell of good luck that it wouldn't likely fire in its condition, because hearing the distress in his adoptive father's voice made him want to put it to use promptly.
Nick Swete was a saint of a man, and he had done nothing but wonderful things for Jacob Garrett Gigu?re.
And what did he get in return for his efforts over the years?
How did Jake repay him for all the tangible and intangible things he had done?
By scaring him.
By making him worry.
By mistreating his daughter.
By growing up to be a no good, worthless and lousy son of a bitch.
What a fucking legacy...
What a fucking waste...
What a fucking shame.
THIRTY-FIVE
Care Package
October 15th, 1995. 12:00AM
Burlwood, Indiana
"You don't have to go if you don't want to, Jacob," Nick Swete advised in his caring tone as Jacob tied his shoes. "I talked to Sheriff Rambo, and he assured me that we could have your mother declared unfit. You could stay with us, if you wanted."
"Thanks, sir," Jacob replied, "but she's my mom. I need to be with her."
Nick bit his lower lip, trying to stay his tongue. After caring for the boy for nearly a year, he had his own ideas about what was best for him. He'd watched Jacob make incredible progress in the time he spent in the Swete household, and the idea of it rolling back pained him. Having arrived as a broken thirteen year old with no real concept of what family life was supposed to be, he moved through several phases of emotions and understandings until he finally became what amounted to a fine and well adjusted young man. There had been many moments of anger, many nights of tears and many breakthroughs of acceptance and serenity that turned him into the quite normal fourteen year old sitting before him now. In looking at him and conversing with him, there were no outward signs of the warping he'd endured in his first thirteen years.
His transformation was impressive, but it was not complete. There were still broken pieces rattling around inside of him, and returning him to the mother who shattered him in the first place seemed like an awful idea on the surface. Even Clyde Rambo expressed his concern about returning Jacob to Janet Gigu?re's care. After the fight at the hockey game, the one that nearly led the troubled teen to juvenile hall, it was the Sheriff who spoke to the victim's parents and convinced them not to press charges because of Jacob's situation. Meeting with The Swetes to discuss the results of that effort, he confided in them his hope that Janet would simply relinquish her rights to her son once she was released from care. He said he was working on it with her, that he was actively engaged in trying to convince her that it was in his best interests.
Based on her behavior, her initial ninety day mental hospital sentence was extended, initially to six months. An attempt at escape led her to be transferred from the asylum to the Elsmere County Jail, where she remained for nearly eight months. Finally released from custody, she showed no interest in writing off her boy, which was a disappointment to everyone involved. Somehow, for some inexplicable reason, she felt that she deserved to get him back, despite the damage she'd done in the past and was likely to do in the future. With that said, the only hope of saving him from her home would be through his cry for help, which he was apparently not willing to make as he finished packing the new clothes that The Swetes had purchased for him. The ones he came with were old and filthy, probably third or fourth hand and barely fit to be worn by children in third-world countries.
While Jake was grateful for everything The Swetes had done for him, for some mysterious reason he felt obliged to go home. So long as that was what he wanted, so long as he didn't make an appeal for help, there was nothing they could do until such time as Janet dropped the ball again. No one doubted that she would, it was just a matter of when and how hard. It was the further damage that she would cause, both before that happened and in the process of it happening, that had everyone worried. In the end, worrying was all they could do. There was simply nothing else in the realm of the law that could be done, unless she flatly neglected him, which they would be watching for like hawks.
"I really appreciate your letting me stay so long, sir," Jacob said as he stood and took a quick inventory of what he had packed, "but she's my mother, and she needs me."
Resigned to letting him go, Nick took a deep breath and nodded before placing his hand on the boy's shoulder. "If anything changes, son," he said, "if you decide that you need to come back, I promise you that our door is always open."
"Thank you," Jacob replied, resolute in his intention to go home.
With nothing left to say, Nick pulled his car keys from his pocket and led his son
pro-temp to the front door of the trailer. Nancy and Tracy were waiting there, and each gave him tight hugs as tears spilled from their eyes. The hug with Tracy was especially tight and long, and it filled him with the same butterflies that it had the first time the two of them were locked in embrace. If anything pained him in leaving, it was the fact that he wouldn't be able to see her everyday. They would meet in passing at school, and perhaps he could find an excuse to hang out with her from time to time, but he would no longer wake up to her smiling face each morning. That stung, but he felt there was no choice but to endure the hardship for the better good of his mother.
"Will you visit?" Tracy asked in a sob, as though she were reading his thoughts.
"Of course!" Jacob replied, that sting starting in his eyes again. "I'll visit all the time, I don't even live all that far away!"
Accepting his promise, his young love let him go. He wiped his eyes on the way out, though there were only the slightest hints of tears in them. Nick led the way to the family station wagon, even though Jacob had told him he would be happy to walk home. The Swete Patriarch wouldn't hear of that, he insisted on being there when mother locked eyes on son for the first time in eleven months. If anything should go bad, he was fully prepared to kidnap the young boy, if that seemed appropriate in the moment.
As they set off, Chucky came rumbling down the road in the Our Mother van, apparently making a Meals On Wheels delivery or picking up some sort of donation for the church thrift shop. He waived wildly at them, almost driving up on the curb in the process. Once he was passed, Nick pulled out onto Oakwood and traveled it all the way back to Ashwood.
They passed Lauchpad's trailer on the way, and Donnell was again seated on the porch talking with his old man. That seemed to be his favorite pastime anymore, he even skipped school quite frequently to do it. Jake waived at him, remembering the good times, and Launchpad returned it without hesitation. Things weren't strained, they were just different. As people, they were different.
Once they turned onto Ashwood, twenty-three fifty-seven rose like monster on the horizon, its sight making Jacob shudder with a deluge of memories. He'd intentionally avoided this end of the park for the duration of her time away, and the feelings that rushed through him when he saw the things associated with this part of his life again were chilling and disheartening.
He'd thought he'd grown, he'd thought he'd recovered, he'd thought that he'd moved beyond the darkness and cold that ruled over him in the past through the counsel of wise and positive people. He'd thought he'd changed in the days he'd spent with The Swetes, but it now seemed that wasn't so. As he looked upon his home, he felt the rushing whitewater foaming and splashing around his mouth at merely laying eyes on the place. Then and there, he realized that nothing about him had changed at all. It was only his situation that had been different for this period of his life, and the situation in which he'd lived was the reality of someone else. Returned to his natural habitat, restored to the life he'd known before his extended vacation, he was right back in the shit, and he was immediately afraid of the things in store for him.
When Nick pulled into his driveway, Jacob saw his mother's haggard face appear in the front door. She looked as though she'd aged ten years in her eleven months away, and she looked even more tired than she'd seemed before her institutionalization. As Jake stepped out of the car, he heard her sobbing straight away.
"My baby boy," she bleated through the torn screen of their storm door. "Oh my sweet baby boy!"
She walked out of the trailer, moving toward Jacob as he approached with his bag in hand. Tears were raining down her face as she wrapped him up in a giant hug and cried like a child. As soon as she touched him, Jacob felt her weight on his shoulders again, felt that he was responsible for her once again.
Nick stepped out of the car and stood by his opened driver's door, watching the events unfold with a hole in his heart. He noted that Jake didn't raise either of his arms to return the overbearing hug of his mother, the boy just stood there and let her do it with indifference.
"Jake," he called after what amounted to more than adequate time for the reintroduction. "You've got our number, you know where we are."
Jacob nodded, still engulfed in his mother's embrace. Unable to watch anymore, Mister Swete climbed back in his station wagon and drove off at a good pace. He didn't have to the stomach to see his work undone, he didn't have the constitution to watch the woman swallow up an innocent young man in her misery.
After a few more moments of the hug, Janet pulled back from her son and wiped her tears off of his face, where transference had put them. She looked upon him with apologetic eyes, but Jacob wasn't buying that bill of goods for a minute. These weren't tears of regret, they were tears of perceived injustice. She hadn't grown while she was gone either, she still took no responsibility for what had happened, and she likely never would. As they walked into the trailer they'd shared for the duration of his life, the trailer they'd once shared with is father, Jake felt the walls closing in around him. This was a dungeon, this was a brig, this was a prison of ill repute, and he was back in custody to serve a minimum sentence of four years to life.
The next several hours drug on like an eternity, featuring the Acamedy Award rejected Janet Gigu?re putting on what amounted to a poor performance of her paying penance through the tale of her passion. She spoke of how terrible the asylum had been, and how devious the doctors were for withholding her Xanax from her. She told tales of things that happened to her in the County Jail, including having to barter with fellow inmates to get the psychotropic medications she insisted she needed. All of her efforts to endear herself to her son were in vain, though, because he was quickly remembering how much he loathed her for what she had done... both on and before the previous Thanksgiving.
Just as he was ready to burst, as he was preparing to tell her to shut the fuck up already and get over herself, the sound of another vehicle pulling into the driveway changed her spirits. She looked outside eagerly and, seeing that it was a Burlwood PD vehicle, knowing that it meant Ron Boudreaux was coming to pay a visit to his darlin', she quickly moved from sadness to elation in what was surely record time.
Suddenly, she was giddy and bubbly. Suddenly, she was all smiles and bright eyes. Jacob remained seated on the couch -- which either his mother or someone else had apparently cleaned up since he found her hanging off of it -- while Deputy Ron approached the door and got a big hug of his own.
"Well howdy there, darlin'!" He laughed as his fat frame wrapped arms around her tightly, his chubby right hand clenching a large and heaving wicker basket. "I brought ya' some things I figured you might be needin', sweetheart!"
"Oh, you shouldn't have!" She praised him, letting him loose and taking the basket from him.
She set the gift on the coffee table, the same one that had recently featured several different drugs beaten into powder and a green bendy straw, and started unwrapping the cellophane it was all amateurishly sealed in.
"Oh, this is wonderful!" She beamed as she pulled fruit, crackers and blocks of cheese out of it.
"Careful at the bottom, 'ere," Boudreaux directed. "There's some meat from Butcher's Lane, you'll wanna get that in the deep freeze if you're not gonna cook it up right away!"
Curious, Jake leaned over and examined the items wrapped in butcher paper resting in the basket. There were packs marked Sirloin, Strip, Ribeye and Chuck. There was a fifth sleeve as well, but this one had no writing on it at all. There was definitely something wrapped tightly inside, but it showed no sign of blood or red shading like the others had. It also looked more solid than squishy, having no markings or impressions on it after baring the weight of the fruit and cheeses on top of it. That was strange, and it led him to believe that there wasn't meat inside of that bundle at all.
Boudreaux took a seat on the couch and engaged Janet in conversation, and the sound of his voice started grating on Jake's ner
ves instantly. Longing to get away, he retreated to his bedroom and climbed onto his mattress. He wasn't tired, but all he wanted to do was to close his eyes and fall asleep.
Listening to his mother and Deputy Ron taking one of their naps wasn't an appealing idea at all, so he settled in and tried to force himself to pass out. When that didn't work, he felt the walkie-talkie that was still under his pillow and wished that he could find a way to make time roll backwards. Nostalgic and longing for brighter days, he turned the device on and set it to channel thirteen, the channel he and Chucky always communicated on. Keying it up, he hoped he might be heard... he hoped he might be transported to a better place.
"Chucky?" He called into the device. "Chucky, are you there buddy?"
Chucky wasn't, of course. He knew that he wouldn't be, but it hurt just the same when there was no response. The days of their innocence, the days of their childhood, were only a distant and cloudy memory, now. As he laid there, his feet hanging over the edge of a bed that he had long since outgrown, he felt the stinging and the liquid of real tears this time.
Burying his face in his pillow, he cried nearly as hard as he had when Coach Boyett confronted him in the locker room of The Garthby Icehouse. His tears were pulled into his pillow, an object not nearly as strong as Boyett's shoulder had been, not nearly as comforting as Nick and Nancy Swete had been, not nearly as understanding as his beloved Tracy had been in the moments that he lost control of himself in their care.
He was on his own again, just as he had been for the majority of his life. He was alone, an army of one to stand against all of the darkest demons that called twenty-three fifty-seven Ashwood home. His father's corpse swinging in the shed, the police lights flickering while men were salvaging what was left of young Joshua Banks, his mother's nearly dead body melted to the coffee table, a grown woman grabbing at his crotch, crystal meth, alcohol and Xanax, all of them were present, and all of them were rearing their ugly little heads and singing a song of torture and torment to the young man's ears.
As he cried, he realized that the ghosts of the past wouldn't be all that he would have to face in his homecoming. There was a new demon, and he felt pretty sure that it's name was Ron Boudreaux, because he still heard the man's voice in the living room while the trailer was slowly filling with billowing smoke. As the cloud rolled Jake's room under his door, he became aware of an all too familiar odor. It was the stench of nail polish remover, and he was willing to bet his life that it was coming from the burning of the ice that was in that fifth sleeve of butcher paper.
THIRTY-SIX
