Sarah was still blushing furiously. "I can’t believe I’m having this discussion with you, but yes, of course. I wasn’t born yesterday."
Rebecca stood up, slowly walked over and gave her a hug, then stepped back. "Well, thank-you for not trying to lie about it. I really appreciate that. Like I said, I won’t say anything to your father; I don’t think he’s quite ready for this news. You’re still his little girl."
Rebecca sat down in a chair next to her daughter. "But tell me one thing, why him? Why that boy? You know how I feel about the Vischers."
Sarah looked over at her mom. Then down at the table. Rebecca just waited. Sarah just stared down at the table, and finally just revealed the problem. "Mom, I’ve been seeing him for a few weeks, but I know this, I’m in love with him." Rebecca suspected there was more, and just waited for Sarah to go on.
Sarah finally looked up from the table and over at her mother. "I know you don’t like Ryan, and that makes it hard. I think you don’t like him because you don’t like his dad. I know you and Mr. Vischer have had harsh words at that council meeting. However, he’s not his dad. Ryan didn’t get to pick his father. I don’t like his father either. There’s something fundamentally off about that man, he gives me the creeps. But if you got to know Ryan, you might like him just fine. Would you at least give me that much? Would you give Ryan a chance?"
Rebecca looked at her daughter. She was actually on the edge of tears, but trying hard to hide it. This was more important than she was letting on. That meant that she had to try to be nice to the boy, at least for Sarah’s sake. This could be problematic, but resignedly, Rebecca already knew she was going to try. For Sarah, sigh. She couldn’t say no to her little girl. "Ok. Because it’s important to you, I’ll try to give him a chance. However, Ryan’s on probation with me. That’s the best I can do. Ok?" She stood up, feeling slightly better. Her breathing was easing up on her.
She saw the immediate relief settle over Sarah. They thought they could hide it, but teenagers were so frightfully unaware of how visibly they wore their emotions on their sleeve. They were blissfully ignorant of the handicap; it was almost a pity that they would become hardened and protective of their emotions by experience and time. Innocence would be lost.
Rebecca stepped back towards the kitchen. "Alright, well, I’m going to go make dinner. Do you have any homework?"
Sarah turned in the chair at the table, smiled, and shrugged. "Yeah. I was just starting on it, and I got distracted by Facebook again."
Rebecca smiled in return. "Well, get un-distracted and get cracking. Homework’s not going to miraculously finish itself while you’re off daydreaming about Ryan and browsing Facebook. Okay?"
Sarah rolled her eyes theatrically and sighed. "Okay, Mom."
Rebecca turned, walked across the kitchen, and opened the doorway to the basement stairs. She reached in, and flicked on the light switch. The fluorescent lights below stuttered, humming, and burst into life, flickering slightly as the settled, and then brightened into the harsh white glow. The stairwell was harshly lit from the high amount of light from the basement below. Even the stairwell was lit brighter than the kitchen above, but Rebecca still couldn’t help but shudder somewhat. She stepped down into the stairwell, ignoring the knot of fear in her stomach, forcing herself to walk steadily down the stairwell, slowly, one step at a time, taking her time.
As she walked down the stairwell, she sniffed, fearing the damp and fecund smell that was the hallmark of Michigan basements, the smell that she feared from childhood. However, she knew intellectually that her basement was nothing like that, but she was helpless not to look for that smell, fearing that one day it would smell like that. However, her husband had spent an obscene and tremendous amount of money without complaining and without saying a word, installing a proper drainage system, sealing the basement, finishing the basement, and installing an excessive amount of bright fluorescent lights. Not because she asked, but because she didn’t have to. That’s love at work, deep and unquestioning commitment to her. Not the type of romance that you’d typically read about in a bodice-ripping romance novel, but real love, nonetheless.
Still, she looked about critically as reached the bottom landing of the steps, resting again. Her heartburn was still bothering her, and she was wheezing slightly. She had left her inhaler and her heartburn tablets in her purse, which was still upstairs on the counter. She wasn’t about to go back and get them, she was already downstairs. She’d just grab what she needed, and then go back upstairs. Problem solved.
The stainless steel wire shelving on her left held her bulk and canned goods in her cellar, with the banks of fluorescent overhead lighting evenly spaced over the rows. The ceramic tiles were clean, overkill perhaps for a basement, but she loved having such a floor she could mop to shining perfection, and she inspected closely, looking for signs of cobwebs or dust. It was an obsession, really, and she knew it. Her husband knew the real reason why. It wasn’t just the asthma. It went much deeper than that. To her father. Her husband quietly supported her, let her have her way without asking. It was easier than forcing something different on her, something more reasonable, God bless him. The other choice was a house with a crawlspace, and unless you bought a mobile home in Michigan, that’s a tall order. Everything has a basement.
Rebecca had come down here for potatoes, canned green beans, and peaches for a cobbler. However, she stopped suddenly at the end of the first row, spotting some dirt on the pristine white tiles. Cleanliness was next to godliness in her book, and she turned to go get the broom and dustpan, clucking to herself. She was not going to tolerate dirt and dust in her cellar. She immediately assigned blame on her husband, who probably had dirt on his work boots and had been browsing through some of her homemade strawberry jam, or perhaps he had been nipping at the dandelion wine, which was a bit young yet. She smiled at the thought, but was still annoyed about the dirt, and frowned as she went back to sweep it up.
Her husband knew why she hated the basement. Her parents had split up when she was young, and they had joint custody over her. Her mom had her during the week, but her dad had her on weekends and for alternating weeks in the summer. They split Christmas, and alternated other holiday and vacation weeks. While her mom lived in an apartment, her dad lived in an old and rambling two-story house on an old family farm that used to belong to his grandmother. The house was old and full of old furniture and knick-knacks. For punishment and/or his convenience, her dad locked her in the basement, where there was only one single light bulb to light the darkness.
She always pleaded with him not to lock her down there, it was bad for her asthma, but he always told her she’d be fine as long as she had her inhaler. Nothing would stop him from closing that door, though he always made Rebecca show him the inhaler first.
The basement of her father’s house was full of old and dusty junk, forgotten remnants of forgotten lives. It was damp, musty, and cold, and frightened her very badly. Michigan basements smelled, a cloying corruption that seeps into everything.
No amount of crying and pleading ever shortened her sentence, and if she wouldn’t be quiet once the darkness of night fell, he’d pull the fuse for the single naked light bulb, leaving her in the inky blackness with very little light filtering in through the dusty and tiny basement windows, which was far worse. The terror alone was overwhelming, and dawn seemed impossibly far away.
Sometimes on these nights, when she shrieked and whimpered in endless terror, she suspected he left the house and went over to his buddy’s house or out to the bar, leaving her alone in the basement, with no neighbors within a half-mile that could hear her pitiful shrieking and pleas for help.
He told her if he ever told her mother about locking her in the basement, she would learn what it’s like to be locked down there without her inhaler, and that she needed to keep her mouth shut about it. Therefore, she never told her mother about it, though she often had night terrors for days and weeks after visiting her father.
/>
~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~
Rebecca’s dad never told her his version of events that day, though. It wasn’t his finest moment. Not by a long fucking shot.
Her father had been upstairs, with a tremendous sour mash whisky hangover from the night before and nursing a bit of the hair of the dog that had bit him. He was staring owlishly at the television trying to make sense of a wrestling match with the volume turned down low to avoid aggravating the pounding headache. The curtains were drawn and he was contemplating the finer points of getting stoned to knock this headache out of orbit.
When he heard the tremendous crashing noise from the basement, he had stood up, a murderous rage on his face. That crashing noise was the straw broke the camel’s back. He didn’t want to be saddled with watching Rebecca every fucking weekend. He worked all goddamned week to pay the fucking child support he could ill a-fucking-ford, and then he also had to babysit on the weekends so his cunt of an ex-wife could blow the child-support check on Mai-Tai’s and Sex-on-the-Beaches to work up the nerve to suck everybody’s cock in the bar. It wasn’t fair. When was he supposed to get a chance to unwind?
The big crashing noise from the fucking basement was just the icing on the goddamned cake. The little shit was up to no good. He stood up and had paced back and forth for about thirty seconds, before he marched over to the basement door and took off his belt. He had snapped the belt a few times, took a deep breath, and unlocked the basement door. He whipped the door open, the knob slamming into the wall and knocking a hole right into the plaster and lath.
"You better not hide."
He had stomped down the stairs, one goddamned step at a time.
"Gonna teach you a goddamn lesson, little girl."
He took a swig of the whiskey, and tossed the bottle overhand down the steps, where it twirled end over end, and crashed, rather satisfyingly, on the concrete. Glass and whiskey blew everywhere.
"I’ve had enough of your shit. No more whining, no more crying, and no more fucking around."
He whistled a tune, stomping one slow step at a time.
"So I’m going to make sure you learn how to behave properly today."
He stopped at the bottom step, and looked around, suddenly uncertain.
Suddenly, raw panic cut through the alcoholic fog. It didn’t exactly sober him up, but the fear was galvanizing.
~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~
Rebecca’s never saw her father come down those steps that Saturday.
That day, in the mid-afternoon, after having been locked into the cellar since ten in the morning, Rebecca had dug through some of the piles of junk in the basement, looking to see if she could find anything to eat. She didn’t expect to find anything, but she didn’t have anything better to do either. Time passes slowly, unless you find something to do to occupy the time.
She had clambered on top of a large and teetering pile, squirming through a hole formed by an end table; she had found the tops of some mason jars. Tugging and pulling, she managed to pop one free, and to her surprise, she found canned peaches. She skittered backwards, and set the jar down, immensely pleased with herself. They were probably ancient, but she didn’t care. Smiling, she crawled back in to pry another jar loose from the box, and see what else she might be able to dine on.
She heard a clatter, and looked down with horror to see her inhaler barely within reach sitting on the edge of a box. It had fallen out of her breast pocket of her dress. She reached down carefully, and could barely touch the inhaler with her fingertips. She tried to grasp it, but it started to spin. She stopped, and coughed lightly, sweat forming on her brow.
It was her only inhaler; and if she were lucky, her dad would let her out tonight. However, it would most likely be tomorrow morning, so she could wash up before going back to her mom’s house. She had to get it. There was no choice here.
She took a deep breath, trying to force herself to be calm as she reached down again, shifting slightly so that her fingers would have slightly more reach. She could just manage to get it between her first and middle fingers, and she pinched. Very carefully, she lifted her arm, slowly, with no sudden movements. Sweat was pouring off her now.
Her hand jittered slightly, and her arm muscles burned. She was frowning with intense concentration, and she could feel the tightness building in her chest. She forced herself to breathe slowly. Her hand came up three inches. Six inches. It was almost there. She backed up slightly, shifting her body slowly. Almost there.
Her lungs burned. She needed that inhaler soon. There was too much dust in here, and it was causing problems. Her hand started shaking badly, and the inhaler started to slip. She wanted to cry, and a tear slipped down her dust stained cheek, leaving a clean path in its wake.
She bit her lip, trying to steady her hand, and her lungs burned with fire. She needed that inhaler. She needed it now. She backed up just a little more. Two more inches, and if she dropped it, it would be right in front of her, right in reach where she could easily grab it.
Another large tear spilled down her cheek.
Rebecca felt something brush her arm, very lightly.
She turned her head slowly, and looked over, to see a rat carefully and gently sniffing her elbow, its whiskers ever so lightly caressing her arm.
Without thinking, she jerked her arm away.
The inhaler fell, clattering deep into the stack of boxes.
She scrambled backwards, trying to scream, but her lungs were locked up.
She didn’t remember anything after that, until she woke up in a hospital. Luckily, she had knocked over so much stuff, her dad—the only time ever—had come downstairs to check on her.
Her husband knew all this, and knew why she wouldn’t tolerate dirt or dust in her cellar. He knew better than to go clod hopping down here in his work boots, and leaving a dirt trail for her to clean up after him. He knows better, damn it all.
Replicants Rising
"Men are driven by two principal impulses, either by love or by fear." ― Niccolò Machiavelli, The Discourses, ca. 1517
Rebecca bent over to sweep up the mess, and a look of horror swept over her features, as she saw the source of the dirt. It wasn’t her husband after all. Her husband was off the hook for making the mess, but it would have been better as far as Rebecca was concerned if it were his fault. In the corner, there was a hole chewed through the drywall, nearly three inches in diameter, and there was a trail of dirt leading right back to the hole in the drywall. It was worse. Vermin.
Vermin. The reminder of that endless noise of rustling that she could never get away from in that basement hellhole. They’d never go away. Playing peek-a-boo around the endless stacks of faded boxes and ghostly furniture that was long forgotten. The cause of her hospitalization that day. She shuddered. Her endless unfriendly companions in that hellhole and they had invaded, yes, invaded! her fortress against all that was unholy about her father’s basement. The nerve. Rebecca would not stand for this. This would not be tolerated. No sir. Not cute little field mice, either, little cuddly balls of fur that you could turn into a pet and pretend that they were just a close relative of a hamster. Goddamned barn rats. Scourge of civilization. Wherever man went, rats weren’t far behind, and farm country was no exception. With neat, practiced movements, she swept up the dirt, and marched down to the end of the aisle retrieve a flashlight from the shelf.
Stomping back down to the corner, she got down on her hands and knees, wincing as her hip popped, as it was prone to do.
Leaning in, she saw the tunnel. Straight through the concrete behind the drywall. What the hell? What kind of teeth and claws do they come with now? Carbide-toothed robo-rats? She crawled in closer, and thought she could hear something scrambling and scraping in the tunnel. She bit back the metallic taste of fear and bile that was rising from her stomach and swallowed hard, but she knew any vermin in there would be crawling away from the light, and not towards her. They were sneaky and cowardly by nature, her white-hot fear not withstanding. In fa
ct, she could see little pebbles and drifts of dirt filtering down as they scrambled away.
Well, she’d fix their wagon for them. She was prepared for this issue, as distasteful as it might be. Just because she didn’t want to contemplate, the issue didn’t mean she had her head up her ass either.
She walked down to the laundry room, and opened up the drawer in the supply cupboard. Yep, she still had some rat traps. Big, oversize mouse traps. You didn’t want to get your fingers caught in one of those. It wasn’t going to sting your knuckles like a mousetrap would if you weren’t paying attention. Nope. These babies would break fingers. You couldn’t mess around with these. You set them carefully, and you handled them gently. Then you gleefully gloated when you finally trapped your pesky little critters. Snap! Off to the big cheese wheel in the sky for that four-legged buck-toothed varmint.
She turned the corner at the edge of the shelf, and stared. More dirt already. Which meant that one of the ballsy motherfuckers had crept in during the short time it had taken her to retrieve an execution device. Ooooh. The nerve. Now Rebecca was pissed. That meant there was one, right here, right now, in the sanctuary of the basement, daring to invade her space while she was in it. Rebecca’s jaw was set in grim determination as she set the trap, then placed it next to the wall by the hole in the drywall.
She turned to get the broom and dustpan, and damned if she didn’t spot another rat that darted out of the hole and sprinted across the floor. She whirled with the broom, hoping to smack it but she was way too slow.
Furiously, she swept up the mess of dirt, glowering, imagining the two sets of eyes watching her clean up the mess they had made while she was right there in the room with them. Rebecca stomped off down the aisle, glancing backwards several times, daring one of them to peek out after her, but she saw nothing.
Ryan's Suffering Page 22