by Rick Jones
“Kimball, no!”
He finally released his father, who slid down against the wall with a hand to his throat, the man fighting for oxygen.
Kimball stood back and embraced his mother, making sure she was all right. Already a knot beneath her eye was beginning to form.
His father got to his feet. “Seems like you may have a pair after all,” he managed, though his voice cracked. Then: “I want you out of my house.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Especially after what you did to mom. And I’m thinking this isn’t the first time you hit her, is it?” He turned to his mother. “Is it, mom?”
She didn’t answer him. But her silence was answer enough.
“I said . . . get out.” His father continued to rub at his throat, the skin red and enflamed.
But Kimball was defiant. “Absolutely not,” he answered.
His father stood there first looking at Kimball, then at his wife, then back to Kimball. Then he nodded. “Well, maybe you’re earning the right to be called a man’s name after all. But you ain’t there yet . . . Boy!” With that final insult he left the kitchen and climbed the stairs to the bedroom.
Down below, in the kitchen, Kimball’s mother wept as he held her close to comfort her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was the weekend, a Saturday. The sky was blue, the weather was mild, and nothing could have been closer to a more perfect day. But dysfunctional lifestyles had a tendency of making the most beautiful days appear bleak.
Kimball’s father was elsewhere inside the house in a sullen mood. And his mother was barely receptive to discussions, usually answering questions with monosyllable answers of ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ But when Kimball asked her if she’d be all right if he left her alone, she gave him a hug and a half-smile. Of course.
“But before you go, Kimball, take a seat. There’re some things that need to be said about what happened last night.”
“There’s nothing to say. Not really.”
“I think there is.” She pointed to the kitchen chair. “Please, Kimball.”
He took the seat at one side of the table, she on the other, then she reached out and grabbed his hand. “What happened last night was an accident,” she hold him. “Your father just reacted. He wasn’t really thinking until after it was done.”
“He hit you. And I don’t think it was the first time, was it?”
“He did it one time before,” she said. “A long time ago. He hasn’t laid a hand on me since.”
“Until last night,” he proffered.
“Kimball, the two of you were heated. He was angry. You were angry. Both of you reacted in ways that should’ve never happened.”
“He hit you, so I responded.”
She pointed to the huge indent in the kitchen drywall. “You drove your father through the wall,” she told him. “You could’ve hurt him.”
Kimball didn’t look humbled by what he did.
His mother smiled lightly. “Honey, I never saw you react like that before. You were so angry. The young man I saw last night scared me. In fact, I was more afraid of you than I was of your father.”
He gave a wounded look. “What?”
“Kimball, I saw in you last night something I’ve never seen before. There was savagery in your eyes. I could see it---an uncontrollable rage. So I have to ask you, son . . . are you all right? Is something bothering you that I should know about? Something that’s been eating away at you?”
Kimball sat back and cast his eyes toward the ceiling, as if considering. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “Pop gets under my skin. He calls me Kimmie or Boy, which he knows I hate. I feel like I’m invisible---like no one sees me. I don’t know where I’m going or what to do with my life. I feel . . . lost.”
Her smile flourished, one that was meant to soothe. “You’re only seventeen,” she told him. “It’s common for teenagers to feel like you do. There’s no written rule that says that every teenager has to know what direction to take in life by the time they turn fifteen or sixteen or whatever. It’ll happen, Kimball. You will find your way. Sometimes it takes longer for others, that’s all.”
He looked at the impression against the wall. She was right, he considered. At least about the rage. The moment his father lashed out and struck his mother with the point of his elbow, his vision turned red and the world suddenly became a maelstrom of violence. But for some odd reason he felt at peace about this, the entire episode a comfort zone of sorts.
“And you’re far from invisible,” she added. “Believe me. You’re a hard person not to see.”
“I don’t mean invisible like that,” he responded. “I know people see me. I’m talking about those who see right through me as if I’m not there.”
Her mother cocked her head. And Kimball could tell that something suddenly dawned on her. “Is this about a girl?”
Kimball looked away and blushed.
“It is, isn’t it?”
His blush deepened.
“Kimball, just because you’re shy with girls doesn’t mean that they don’t see you. I’m sure they do. Did it ever occur to you that maybe they’re just as shy?”
“Not her,” he said. “Not Vicki. She’s in love with the team captain of the football team. She only sees him. I don’t even exist to her and I sit right next to her. Well, almost. Maybe a few seats behind in the row beside her.”
“Look, honey, you were always one to stay in the shadows for some reason. If you want to step into the Light, then you have to step from the Darkness in order to be seen. So step into the Light, Kimball. Step into the Light and be seen. If you do, then she will see you.”
Kimball remained silent for a long moment.
Then, as if to purposely shift directions, he said: “I need to check on Becki.”
His mother nodded. “Is that where the money went, Kimball?”
“It’s not what you think,” he told her. “I’ll explain later.”
“Explain what?” His father entered the kitchen. Neither Kimball nor his mother realized he had been within earshot all that time, listening. “Answer your mother, Kimmie. Is that where the money went? To help that coked-up whore fill her veins with junk.”
“It’s not what you think,” he repeated.
“Then why don’t you enlighten us.”
“Becki’s family,” he responded. Enough said.
“I know she’s family. She had the whole world in her hands and she pissed it all away. She’s just . . . like . . . you.” Then his father did something peculiar. He fashioned his hand as if holding an imaginary penis, then swiveled his hips from one side to the other as if hosing the room by urinating. After a moment of this, he simply tossed his hands up in disgust. “Pissed it all away!” he yelled. “Just like you, Boy! She’s family we don’t need!”
Kimball stuck him with a hard stare. “She was in trouble, so I bailed her out.”
“Bailed her out?” His father pushed for more.
Kimball nodded. “She owed someone money.”
“So she comes to you because she knows you’re easy, that it?”
Kimball remained quiet.
“She doesn’t contact family unless she needs a handout. If not for that, we’d never see her at all.” He began to pace the kitchen floor. Then he pointed to the impression in the wall. “And don’t think for one moment you’re not going to pay to get that fixed, either,” he added gruffly. “You are. Just like you’re going to pay for the hole you put in your bedroom wall.”
“That’s enough!” his mother shouted. “The two of you need to calm down. I don’t want to see what happened last night to ever happen again.”
The father looked at her, then to Kimball. Then as a parting shot, he said to his son: “I mean it, Boy. You best come up with the cash to fix these walls.” Then he was gone, disappearing into the other room where the TV was going.
Kimball sighed. “He hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you, Kimball.”
Ye
ah, he does.
His mother grabbed his hand and held it. Her touch was warm. “I know you said ‘no’ before,” she started, “but I think it might do you well to go to church with me on Sunday. I could really use the company, Kimball.”
He looked deep into his mother’s eyes where he saw how they implored him with the need to have him with her. They were puppy-dog eyes, big and sweetly sensitive, like a child would look at a parent that hinged on a decision to either release or refrain from handing over that last cookie.
He sighed inwardly.
Then he relented. “I’ll go,” he finally said.
She patted his hand, a slight victory, which was confirmed by her smile. “We’ll go to the ten o’clock mass,” she told him. “You don’t have to wear a suit coat. Just a nice shirt and tie.”
He nodded: Whatever. Then he got to his feet.
“Kimball.”
He looked down at his mother whose smile of victory had faded. There was something serious about her now. “I know you’re going to see how Becki’s doing,” she said. “I understand that she’s family. But she’s completely lost and I don’t think she wants to be found. That Dennis is no good, Kimball. So please be careful.”
“I’ll be fine,” he responded. “Besides, she gave me her word that she would clean up after this.”
This time his mother smiled falsely. “Kimball honey, people with her condition will say anything to you just to get what they want. People are funny like that. I know you care for Becki, but don’t be too disappointed when she tells you otherwise---that she used you.”
“She was crying, mom. She meant what she said.”
She was crying because she knew she was doing you wrong. She was ashamed for using your kindness against you. “I hope you’re right,” she finally said. “I really do.”
He gave his mother a wink, and then he left through the rear door.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When Travys D’Orazio arrived at the Malden Hospital with a bouquet of flowers to see Vicki, her parents and two sisters were at her bedside, which gave him a moment to pause before entering the room. But when Vicki’s father saw him through the glass pane, he waved at him in invitation. So Travys entered the room.
Mr. Pastore got to his feet and inclined his head, a slight nod of acknowledgement. “Travys,” he said.
“Sir.”
Mr. Pastore was of average height and build, and had a lot of shared features with his daughter, Vicki. “I’m only going to say this once,” he said, sounding mildly stern. “I was a kid, too. I understand celebrating after a game. Did it myself. But I didn’t allow my girlfriend at the time to get so drunk that she ended up falling fifteen feet off the edge of a precipice to a ravine below. Get what I’m saying here?”
Travys nodded. “Yes, sir. I take full responsibility. I should have been watching.”
“Yeah . . . You should’ve been.”
After a moment of awkward silence between them, Mr. Pastore corralled his two younger daughters, twins, and began to usher them out of the room. “I’ll give you and my daughter a few minutes of alone time,” he told him.
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it. And I appreciate your understanding, as well.”
Mr. Pastore did not follow up with a response as he left the room with his twin girls and his wife.
Travys turned to Vicki, who lay in bed looking out the window. Her face was badly bruised. Her lips and chin had cuts, with some wounds requiring stitches. And both arms were bandaged. She refused to acknowledge him in any way.
“Hey,” he said, taking a seat by the bed. “How’re you feeling?”
She ignored him.
When he tried to lay a gentle hand on her forearm, she whisked it out of his grasp as if his hand was white-hot to the touch.
“Babe.”
He was met with silence.
Then from Travys: “I brought you something.” He held out a bouquet that was mostly made up of carnations, with a tulip or two thrown into the mix. “They’re very pretty,” he said. “Has some of your favorite colors.”
She continued to ignore him. So he placed the flowers down by the side of the bed, leaned forward, and spoke softly. “At first I came here to cheer you up,” he told her. The sweetness was gone from his voice. Instead, he spoke with a hint of menace. “And it’s good that you kept your mouth shut. I don’t know if it’s because you’re smart in doing so, or if it’s because you’re too ashamed to speak about last night. But I think you know you pushed me to do what happened.”
She snapped her head around, almost violently, to face him. Her eyes sparked with anger that was all-consuming. “Pushed you?” Travys had to shush her, since her voice carried loud enough for her father to glimpse through the glass pane with an inquisitive look.
“Come on, babe. You know you wanted it.”
“You raped me.”
Travys lashed out, grabbed her forearm and pinned it to the mattress.
She tried to wiggle it free. But Travys was too strong. “You’re hurting me.”
Then through gritting teeth, Travys stated in warning. “You listen to me, bitch. You got what you wanted. I got what I wanted. You were drunk, wandered off, and took a slight fall. It happens. Learn that story and tell it well. It’s all good. ”
“It’s not all good. Now let go of me or I swear to God I’ll scream.”
He did. Then he fell back into his seat. “It’s just your word against mine.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
Then Travys could see her face beginning to twist and screw with the onset of horrible emotions. She was ashamed with what happened. And she was furious. But it appeared the shame trumped furious. She would say nothing.
“That a girl,” he said.
She turned away from him and stared out the window. “I want you to leave.”
“Seriously?’
“Leave, Travys. I never want to see you again.”
“That would be pretty hard to do since we go to the same school.”
Vicki then brought her hands to her face and she began to sob uncontrollably. As much as she tried to brave through the moment, she couldn’t. Her emotions were too overpowering.
Then Travys felt a hand on his shoulder. Apparently when Mr. Pastore saw his daughter break down through the glass window, he entered the room. “I think it’s time to leave, Travys.”
“Yes,” he said. “I believe you’re right.”
Travys got to his feet, looked at the bouquet of flowers, and thought how the peace offering was a failed suggestion to patch things up. Then he left the room berating himself for wasting seven dollars on carnations, when he could have used it to purchase a half-case of Milwaukee’s finest.
Such a waste, he thought.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“We can go to Jersey.” Johnnie Deveraux was sitting in the living room with his wife Darlene, and his son Connor. Everyone was concerned. Johnnie owed Cooch fifteen hundred dollars within days---money they didn’t have. Paying rent was no longer a consideration. So they would be evicted, again, which had become a common theme in the lifestyle of the Deveraux family---always moving from place to place telling themselves that this would be their final home. But this had never been the case. Johnnie Deveraux simply loved playing the dogs too much to establish any roots.
“Is Jersey far enough?” Darlene asked him.
Johnnie’s shoulders slumped. Probably not. Especially when you’re talking about a guy like Vinny Cuchinata, who had a very long reach.
Johnnie began to pace the room nervously. Then he turned to his wife, then to his son, saw the concerned looks on their faces, and at that moment regretted being born. Pain rushed him like something hard and tangible, a blow to his conscience. He loved his family deeply. He wanted to be the king of a vast castle, with his wife the queen and his son a prince. All he provided them was dysfunction, with his scepter of rule being nothing but a losing ticket from the raceway.
He had jeopardiz
ed his life over a sickness he couldn’t contain. Gambling took precedence over his family, people he loved and exposed to risk. So the man broke, sobbing like an anguished child full of regret. He had seen himself as a colossal failure to do right by his wife and child, failing them as he failed himself. They loved him. He could see that. They put up with his vice time and again, always forgiving him enough to believe he had the will to someday curb his appetite for the track, and give them the life they deserved: one of stability.
They had weighed their hopes too long, he considered.
He had failed them all.
His wife and son got up from the sofa and raced to embrace the man they loved---a man who was kind of heart but weak in will. They held each other tightly, a threesome who sobbed just as hard as the man who regretted his existence.
Jersey was not far enough. This he knew. Nor were the beachside properties on California shores, which were a continent away. No matter what Cooch would find them.
On the wall above the hearth of the fireplace was a store-bought picture of the Virgin Mother standing there with her arms held out in invitation. She was beautiful and smiling, her features soft and warm. And around her head she wore her golden aura like a crown.
Johnnie looked at the image and beseeched her for an answer, the man asking for salvation instead of damnation. Is there no one who will help us? Is there no one at all?
When he received no answer from the Virgin Mother, he sobbed right along with his family.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Oak Grove Section of Malden
Becki Laurent lived on the third floor of the tenement that overlooked the MBTA’s Orange Line, the train station that led into Boston. The house was old and rickety-looking. The paint on the wood peeled back like tufts of hair. The porch canted as the support beams underneath weakened from rot. And the numerous cracks in the windows were covered over with duct tape to keep them pieced together.
As Kimball took the stairway that led to the second and third floors, the steps felt soft and spongy beneath his weight as they groaned and protested with every footfall. There was no way anyone could mount these stairs without alerting the tenants within, he considered.