Sync, page 14
true happiness
would require
a sense of permanence.
As sleep swallows me,
I resign myself
to almost.
I’m Jerked Awake
By an ear-shattering screech.
What are you doing?
Colleen rips back my blankets.
Discovers a naked Parker scrambling
to un-attach herself from a naked me.
I knew it! Perverts!
She grabs Parker by the hair,
pulls her onto the floor.
Bitch! screams Parker.
That’s child abuse, you know.
Your word against mine.
Who are they going to believe?
“Two of us on this side of the story.”
Obviously. But not for long.
Your disgusting games are over.
She storms out of the room,
leaves the door open.
“Care to watch?” I call, knowing
it will only exacerbate the problem
but unable to stop myself.
Holy shit.
There goes almost.
STORM
Four Days Waiting
To plead my case in front
of a judge, knowing it’s useless
without Jaidyn’s cooperation.
I asked Jim to see if she’ll come.
Meanwhile, more screenings.
Physical health. Check.
A bit on the lean side.
Vaccinations up to date.
No allergies.
Dental health. Check.
Could use some work.
Sexual health. Check.
No STDs.
Not an assault victim.
Not an assault perp.
Does not present LGBTQ.
Mental health. Check.
The counselor asks if I feel
I need meds to stave off anxiety
and/or aggressive behaviors.
I understand the game.
“What makes you think
I might become combative?”
Ms. Wilson is fortyish, black,
with bleached hair that circles
her face like a platinum cloud.
Her eyes are so emerald green
I wonder if it’s the color of her contacts.
This game belongs to her.
Oh, I don’t know. Something about
your history of violent assaults?
“All totally righteous.”
She opens a folder, runs
her finger down a page inside it.
Totally righteous. Uh-huh.
Thirteen years old, you beat
the crap out of a kid because
he looked at some photos.
“My photos. Could’ve asked
to see them. And, by the way,
he beat the crap out of me.”
Mutual crap beating. Noted.
“Yeah, well, he was bigger.
What was I supposed to do?
Not defend myself?”
Sounds like you started it.
So, he was defending himself.
I hate logic. I don’t respond.
She moves on. Two years later.
Wow. You escalated, didn’t you?
I figured lockup was my calling.
Why not play hard and fast
for whatever time I had on the outside?
But What I Say Is
“It wasn’t all my fault.”
She actually laughs. Laughs.
That seems to be your theme song.
My pissed response triggers.
“What’s so damn funny?”
Nothing in this folder is funny.
“True. It’s also not all my fault.
Maybe start with my mother…”
Okay. When did you last see your mom?
“Mother. I mean, I called her Mom,
but she was more like an incubator.”
Understood. So, when was the last
time you saw your incubator?
“Three years ago, at Christmas.
She wanted Lake and me for the holidays.”
And how did that go?
“We figured out there was no Santa.”
I say it with a straight face,
and I think she actually believes
me for about two seconds.
She grins. Why was that?
“Where do I start?”
The Living Situation Was Impossible
Mom had moved in with one
of her strip club customers, a wiry
little son of a bitch named Don.
Their apartment had a single
bedroom, and they shared it.
I insisted Lake take the couch,
which meant I slept on the floor.
“Mom and Don fought about work.
About money. About whose turn
it was to shop, to cook, to clean.
About Mom’s part-time stripping.”
He didn’t like her stripping?
“No, he was fine with it, but
he wanted her to put in more hours.
She said kids needed supervision.
We were her excuse to stay home.
Not that we noticed her
worrying about us.”
No one else could watch you?
I shake my head.
“Our grandmother did when
we were little, but she was
mostly out of the picture,
though she did drop by once or twice.”
She always left buzzed on booze.
Beverly hadn’t changed at all.
One of Those Times
Happened to be Christmas.
Mom claimed to want us home
specifically on that day, but never
bothered with a tree or lights or tinsel.
Lake and I scrounged cardboard
from beside the apartment dumpsters.
We cut it into Christmas tree patterns,
like we did in school once, only bigger.
Then we glued on pebbles, buttons,
bottle caps, and whatever else
interesting we could find.
It was crude, but better than nothing.
We finished it on Christmas Eve.
The end product at least added
sparkle to the plain living room.
“Santa would like it,” I said.
Lake agreed. Doesn’t even matter
there aren’t any presents to put
underneath it, she added.
Who says? asked Mom.
Beverly’s bringing them.
Later I overheard Mom in
her room, on the phone.
Just get something, Mother.
I swear I’ll pay you back.
Pause. Thirteen. Remember?
No presents. No surprise, and neither
was Beverly forgetting our age.
Lake and I laughed about it.
We were immune to hurt by then.
All that mattered was being together again.
We found ways to feel happy.
Until everything turned to complete shit.
Christmas morning, the yelling
started before Mom and Don
even opened the bedroom door.
They’re your damn kids.
Why do I have to get up?
It’s almost eleven. My mother
will be here anytime.
Beverly showed up maybe
an hour later. When I opened
the door, she bolted into the room.
Merry Christmas! Ho. Ho. Ho.
Each “ho” was a gin-scented huff.
Presents? Yeah, she had them.
One for Lake. One for me.
Wrapped in newspaper.
Plus a big bottle of cheap booze,
already open and missing a little,
which she gave to Mom and Don.
Caught Santa at the liquor
store. He said to bring you this.
Booze for Breakfast
Tends to set the tone for the day.
By the time Lake and I sat
on the floor to open our gifts,
the three so-called adults
were downing gin and tonics.
“You go first,” I told Lake.
We didn’t expect much,
and that’s what we got.
Memory for Lake.
Jenga for me.
I didn’t know what you’d like,
but when your mom was a kid,
she used to play those games.
Thanks, Beverly, said Lake.
Honestly, considering how
few things we had to entertain
ourselves with, we were grateful.
We moved off into one corner
and I set up the Jenga.
Mom went into the kitchen
to work on dinner—turkey
lasagna, as it turned out.
Don and Beverly sat on the sofa
and watched Don’s favorite
“Christmas” movie, Die Hard.
Lake creamed me at Jenga.
I beat her at Memory.
After Die Hard, Don found
an NFL game. Football on
Christmas! There is a Santa Claus!
Told you I saw him at the liquor
store. Speaking of which…
Beverly stumbled into the kitchen
to refill her glass.
No clue what triggered it,
but on her return she started to dance.
Not like the waltz.
More like what she did at work.
I mean, she kept her clothes
on, but the way she wriggled
her body in front of Don
was totally meant to turn him on.
Isn’t this better than football?
I figured Don would yell
for her to get out of the way.
I figured Mom would get pissed
and tell Beverly to cool it.
But Don and Mom started dancing, too.
“It’s a sandwich,” I whispered.
“Beverly and Mom are the bread.
Don’s the meat.”
Gross.
It was.
Ms. Wilson’s Face
Remains totally blank
as I relate the experience.
“You don’t think that’s funny?”
I don’t find child abuse amusing.
“Child…That wasn’t abuse.”
Oh, but it was.
“Not compared to…”
What?
“Doesn’t matter. Long time
ago.” And the bitch is dead.
It does matter. But we can
talk about that another time.
Okay, so what about school?
Assuming you’ll be with us
for a while, are you going
to participate willingly?
“Guess so. Why wouldn’t I?”
She shrugs. Some people don’t.
What about vocational aspirations?
“Like, what do I want to be
when I grow up?”
Yes, exactly like that.
“What makes you think
I’m going to grow up?”
You told me you’re not suicidal.
“That shit’s not up to me.”
I might have her stumped.
She sits there gawking
for a decent length of time.
Let’s say you do grow up.
What would you like to do?
“Ms. Wilson, no one decent
is going to hire me. I’ll never go
to college. I’ll probably flip burgers.”
Humor me here. If you could go
to college, what career path
would you want to choose?
I’ve never really thought
much about it. Not since…
Something Molly once said to me
surfaces. Rex messed with bees
and one day he got stung on the nose.
He let me put baking soda paste on it.
You’re so good with him, she told
me. You should think about being a…
“I guess a veterinarian.”
That Seems to Impress Her
That’s a fine ambition.
You like animals, I take it?
“I like dogs. Never been
around other animals unless
you count the human kind.”
You don’t much like that
kind, though, do you?
“I like the few I can count on.
Jim. My sister. My girlfriend…”
Except, where is she? Move on.
“And I like you.”
You are a player. She grins.
Of course. But tell me about
your girlfriend. What’s her name?
“Her name’s Jaidyn. And, yes,
I’m in love with her. And, yes,
that complicates everything.”
At least you’re honest.
“Believe it or not, I have no
reason to lie. Truth matters.”
Okay, then. Is Jaidyn possibly
responsible for why you’re here?
I bring my eyes level
with hers. “In every way.”
She expects me to give her
the details, but I hold on to them.
You going to make me guess?
I hate betraying Jaidyn’s confidence.
I hate that it might make a judge go easier.
I hate that Jaidyn’s put me in this position.
“I promised I wouldn’t tell.
Figure it out. You’re a woman.”
She nods. I get it. I’m sorry.
No chance she’ll change her mind?
I shrug. “Either way, that son
of a bitch won’t be hurting
anyone else for a long time.”
I wouldn’t be feeling too
noble about that, Storm.
“Noble? Hardly. Satisfied?
A little, though he should be
the one talking to the judge
tomorrow, and I don’t mean
as a witness against me.”
I doubt he’d risk that unless
he knows about your deal
with Jaidyn. Or he’s stupid.
“He’s a successful predator.
He’s anything but stupid.”
Lance Is Not Stupid Enough
To make an appearance.
My public defender, who isn’t much
interested in defending me, informs
me of this first thing.
We meet ahead of my hearing,
in a windowless puke-green room.
A fluorescent bulb’s buzzing overhead.
He doesn’t shake my hand.
Picture a five-foot-five packrat
in a cheap suit, and you’ve got
Peter Maxwell. Scraggly whiskers
and dark eye circles make ol’ Pete
look like he’s been on the job too long.
The DA’s filed a petition
to keep you detained.
The charge is felony assault.
I nod. Basic information.
This is your detention hearing.
The DA will present the basic
information about your case.
You can contest the petition
if you believe what he says is false.
“He isn’t prone to lying, is he?”
I’d stow the attitude if I were
you. Are you saying you’re guilty?
“Why would I make something
up? There were witnesses.
Also extenuating circumstances.”
And what might those be?
“The guy assaulted someone first.
Someone I care about.”
I see. Well, that person can
testify at your jurisdiction
hearing, which will be within
fifteen business days.
Meanwhile, since you have
no parent here on your behalf,
the judge will order continued
detention until that time.
“What about Jim?”
He consults his notes. Oh.
Your foster father. I’m afraid
the system won’t allow it.
Not with the impending charge.
You could be a danger to him.
“Serious question. What do
you think will happen
at my jurisdiction hearing?”
A long pause, punctuated
by that damn humming light.
Three assaults in four years,
each more vicious than the last.
Even with your extenuating
circumstances, you’ll do time.
The only question is, how long?
Blunt
But that’s better than bullshit.
Guess only pricey personal lawyers
tell you everything will be fine.
No worry, just sign the check.
While the walls of your carefully
constructed domain crash down.
“Extenuating circumstances
are a reason to plead not guilty,
right?” Don’t want to appear
too eager to be locked up.
Allow me to do my job, please.
Maybe I want one of those
expensive lawyers after all.
Peter Maxwell exits the cubicle
before I do. I wait for a guard
to escort me to the courtroom.
It’s mostly deserted.
