by J D Spero
They had finally come. All those weeks in that little room with the UFO camera watching. They’d seen enough. Now it was time. Judgment day. The aliens had descended.
Worse yet, Gerrity kept at it. He hardened his gaze on Ty. Flipped the switch to business. “Let this be a lesson to you. Those drugs that make you feel good? They are especially dangerous for you because you may have this condition. It is a dire situation. You do not want to become a statistic. We’re going to work to get you help. Therapy. Rehab. I don’t want you to worry.”
“My father’s dead.” He decided he hated Gerrity. His fist pounded the table with a muted thump. His face twisted in pain.
Gerrity hardly noticed. “So now, when I call you to the stand, make it about emotions. Cry like a baby. Convince the jury you were a goner from the start. That as soon as you emerged from the birth canal seventeen years ago, you were destined for addiction.”
The pudgy, red-faced judge entered the courtroom. Everyone was supposed to stand.
Ty couldn’t stand. He wanted to shove his fist through the table. Throw his chair against a wall. Angry tears pricked. The room stretched into a narrow hallway, its walls closing in. He was being sucked down into the tunnel. An airless vacuum. He coughed, holding his throat. Tears slid from his eyes—the eyes he got from his father—and tumbled down his feverish face.
Though Marcella would’ve preferred to have Bernie beside her on the day Tyler took the stand, knowing he was caring for Hen comforted her. Besides, she’d been sitting for over an hour and nothing had happened yet.
She craned her entire body toward Gerrity’s table. She studied the back of Tyler’s downturned head. It kinked to the side, shy-like. Near his collar, she saw fine blond hair on his neck.
He needed a haircut.
The fury. They didn’t have the decency to give him a haircut before the trial? There he sat, alone. Up at that stupid table with his hair overgrown. With all the evidence pointed against him. And now, his deadbeat father had broken his heart once again and wouldn’t be there to testify in his favor. And she couldn’t even go to him.
Gerrity folded his hands apologetically before the judge’s stand. His soft-spoken words rippled through the courtroom like lake-effect snow.
“Oh, I see,” the judge said.
Wait. What did he say? Although she’d heard it plainly enough. She still couldn’t believe it. It was the last thing she expected to hear out of Gerrity’s mouth.
Found in motel bathroom. Autopsy results pending.
Tripp was dead?
Apparent drug overdose. Possible suicide. Investigation underway.
Oh, my god. Tripp was dead.
Her breath got chunky. The room spun.
Gerrity glanced back at Marcella, genuine apology in his eyes.
Why look at me? Tyler sat there all alone. Her oldest son had just learned his father dropped dead. And she was stuck in a pew, wrapped in polyester, silenced by courtroom etiquette.
She gripped the bench in front of her until her fingers went numb. She searched the courtroom for a sign—any sign—that would tell her son’s fate. What would happen now that Tripp, the bastard, was dead? This had to lead to a recess, right? They couldn’t keep up this charade of justice. The defendant’s father freaking died!
Tears welled up. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt.
A few members of the jury shook their heads pitiably. Most remained expressionless. Bastards. All of them. What were they thinking? Have they looked at her son? Did they even see him? Did they know what a crappy hand he was dealt as spawn of such a loser as Tripp Trout? It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.
Gerrity kept talking.
His client was grieving. He’d always wanted more from his estranged father.
His voice droned on as the courtroom swirled around her. Wood and burgundy leather and velvet curtains and that flag and the other flag and the robe and the men in suits. Everything blurred together.
Gerrity kept talking.
The circumstances under which his client’s father passed reinforce the argument for rehabilitation.
Meaning what? This legalese way of speaking was maddening. Impossible. Everything went into the haze. Dizzying. Marcella pulled herself up. Screw courtroom etiquette. She would go to her son. He needed his mother right now.
“Tyler,” she called.
He straightened but did not turn in her direction.
“Tyler!” Louder this time. “Ty!”
She sidestepped out of the pew, her voice cracking. “Tyler, I’m here.”
In the aisle now. “I’m here, Tyler.”
Then, he did turn. His eyes were wet and raw, but menacing. Tripp’s icy glare. A warning: Don’t come any closer. What? He didn’t want her to make trouble? He didn’t want her causing a scene?
No, he couldn’t be mad at her. He needed her. Maybe he didn’t understand what was happening. He was confused and angry and—
She didn’t care about the trial or courtroom antics or even the law. Her son’s father had died. She needed to go to him.
She wobbled toward Gerrity’s table, ignoring the guards who flanked her. “Tyler, I’m here.” Her voice broke.
Guards caught her by the elbows.
“He just lost his father. Let me go to him. Let me go to my son!” Her cries cracked through the courtroom. “Let me go. Please. I have to go to him. Please.”
Tyler turned away, showing his unshaven neck. The unruly hair on the back of his head.
No…
She fell into the guards’ arms. Right there in the aisle of the courtroom. Then…
Blackout.
Ty blinked, and it was the next day. Back at it. Same, same in the courtroom. But everything felt different because he was alive and breathing and his father was dead. Last night’s terrors were unspeakable and he hadn’t even slept. Ty’s insides felt like someone had used a tenderizer on them. His brain, too. So many times he had to check to see if he was still breathing. He was amazed to find he was. He couldn’t imagine anything worked inside. But his heart still beat and his lungs brought oxygen into his body. Why, though? Why bother? His father was dead. He should be, too.
Marcella wasn’t, though. She was quite alive. She made that clear yesterday with her little breakdown in the courtroom.
“Tyler! I’m here,” she’d called.
He’d turned back to glare at her. And she was his mother, but not his mother. She was also Ellen Ripley. Sigourney Weaver. Same, same. They were all a part of Alien. He’d watched the movie many times. Ellen Ripley defeated the alien, but not until it terrorized her and the rest of the ship.
The courtroom-ship shifted on its course, and Ty’s stomach lurched. Everyone had a part. Everyone played against him. They’d gotten to everyone. Even the judge had transformed into an alien, scaly, slick-black. Like an enormous insect. The man who turned into a bug. The Metamorphosis. Where was that book?
The giant bug, no, the alien was there. Big kahuna alien was in charge. He had a long, dagger-shaped head that clicked open when he spoke—in code—fangs flashing. Screeching, gaping jaw—saliva stretching. Claws floating, swimming, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
The movie played out.
Ty’s mother—Sigourney Weaver, Ellen Ripley—fought her way to the aisle, wailing inconsolably, until kahuna alien’s guards came after her. Her cries had echoed in the courtroom even after they took her away.
A heaviness had fallen over him. Lava filled his chest and his whole body.
And today. Same, same. His body was breathing and alive as he sat in the courtroom. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Because he knew it wasn’t an overdose. His father hadn’t done anything wrong except be related to him, to Ty. Even way out in Arkansas, they found him. The aliens got Dad. Punished him. Silenced him.
Ty gritted his teeth, wary of them all now. Everything was connected. This would play out as they saw fit.
“Tyler Trout.”
Ty stepped woo
denly to the stand. It was like a stage. In the audience, his mother’s face was all screwed up with worry. Besides his own lawyer and Dock, there were some random people. And then, the jury. They looked far from amused. Bored as hell, actually. Policeman guy came over with a Bible. Told him to put his hand on it. Raise the other.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“Yes.” He knew his line.
Policeman guy went back to his corner and Gerrity stood in front of him.
He’d asked Ty to cry like a baby, show what a sorry sack he was. He should’ve been able to. He should’ve been crying for Dad. Sad about that. But the tears wouldn’t come. He tried. Even pulled at the hair on his arm. But the tears were so far buried. Impossible to reach.
He answered all Gerrity’s questions—questions designed to portray Ty as a hopeless mental case. Whatever. It didn’t matter. No one could do anything about it now. The aliens had taken over.
On Gerrity’s cue, he started talking about how the aliens had always been there, controlling him. They fought to get a message through—from the UFO cameras—but there was too much congestion. His head was thick with tedium. For once in his life, he yearned for the distraction. They were strangely quiet, though. But they were there.
He talked and talked. It got quiet in the courtroom.
Gerrity, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, seemed to swell on the spot. Maybe he was unhappy with Ty’s performance. Who knew? Ty was no actor. What did Gerrity expect? Ty spoke the truth. Starting with the commercial, then the scan code on the radio, then the voices in the closet he attacked with a poker, and then the screeching animals at night that kept him awake at all hours.
It all sounded stupid when he said it aloud. He felt himself turning bright red and wished he could take it all back. Keep his secrets to himself.
When Gerrity turned to the subject of his father, though, Ty had a strange out-of-body response. Like, floating. Maybe going to heaven for a visit. Up, up, and up. Everything else erased. Light, airy, like clouds. He was vapor. Nothing. Until someone in the jury sneezed and he came crashing down into the leather-studded chair so abruptly, he felt like he might puke.
This was torture. He would kill for a fix right now. Not literally. His stomach turned with the thought, though. The cruel irony tormented him.
Then it was Dock’s turn.
His questions started. About Derek. His truck. Miss Sally. His father. They were like a slow burn. Waves of them. Incessant. One after another and another. They seemed so dumb. Obvious. Ty hated that he had to answer them all. It was excruciatingly monotonous. His head pounded. Ages passed before he asked about Cabbage Night. Ty felt something close to relief.
But something was wrong. Dock’s lips were moving, but Ty’s ears went numb. His hearing was on the fritz.
On reflex, he studied the corners of the room. There were four UFO cameras in here. Four! One in each corner. Oh, no. They were supposed to be done. It was over. This was it. Tyler’s palms got sweaty.
He heard Gerrity’s voice in his mind.
That’s my boy. Tell me everything. Tell me the whole truth.
Gerrity’s catlike eyes and oversized Joker grin circled before him. Laughter echoed. Everything else drowned out.
That’s my boy. Tell me everything. Tell me the whole truth.
Was this their message? Part of their plan?
Fighting through the noise in his brain, Ty started talking. Fast. “I didn’t borrow Derek’s truck. That’s never happened. Not that night or ever. He wouldn’t let me drive it. We went together to Miss Sally’s. We had a plan.”
“What—”
Ty wouldn’t let him in. “We were just going in for some stupid piece of paper. I was high. Kind of out of my head.”
“What drugs did you—”
“The good stuff. Cocaine.” He glanced at Marcella, whose eyes were shocked open. Like the living dead. That word must’ve hit her like a ton of bricks. It almost looked like she might puke. That endless worry in her watery eyes.
Everything else clicked off. UFO cameras blinked out. Laughter shut down. Congestion cleared. Silence fell down around him.
It was just the two of them in the room—him and his mom. He spoke directly to her, looking her right in the eye.
“Do you know what it’s like when your mother doesn’t know you?”
Her face went blank, stunned.
His lip twitched as he held back tears. “I was there that night, Mom. I went into Miss Sally’s house. I didn’t give a shit about the paper Derek wanted. The report or whatever. I wanted money. She had it hidden in there. She was asleep. Right there in her chair in front of the TV. The light made her look creepy. It weirded me out.” He paused. Swallowed. Took some water to clear that crud on his tongue. And kept talking. “Then she woke up and it was just me and her in the room. Just us.”
Marcella wrapped her arms around herself. Her lips trembled.
“Yes, Mom.”
She kept shaking her head.
He pulled at his hair. “Don’t do that. Don’t—why can’t you see me? I was there. It was me.”
“No,” Marcella whispered.
“Yes. I was there. It was me.”
Dock’s voice: “Hold on, son. Start from the beginning. This was—”
“Cabbage Night.”
“The night before Halloween.”
“Right. The night of pranks.”
…Roxanne Russo wasn’t at the bonfire that night. They’d stayed in the truck, he and Derek, smoking weed and watching the flames. No one paid attention to how dangerously high the flames were. Neon orange, mud yellow, electric purple. Hot spikes teased the tall pines, licking the trees’ shadows.
He yearned for Roxanne. Imagined her glazed-cranberry nails scratching his back, tracing her name over his flannel shirt. Her name, then his. A big heart around both.
“Ready to roll?” Derek smacked his chest, waking him with a start. Ty hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep. Weed sometimes did that, made him sleepy.
He rolled his tongue against his teeth. “Got any water? Thirsty.”
Derek offered him a half-drunk, warm Coke leftover in his cup holder. Ty slurped it down.
Nirvana’s Lithium had come on and they were halfway to Miss Sally’s when Ty remembered the little white treat in his pocket. “Dude, I need a bathroom.”
“I’ll pull over. Grab a tree.”
Ty bit the inside of his cheek. Fingered the packet. “Tree won’t work.” He made a fart noise with his mouth.
“Geezum. Aw’right.”
Derek pulled into Stewart’s on Route 9.
A public restroom wasn’t Ty’s favorite place to do it, but he wasn’t picky tonight. And he was prepared. He pulled out the white packet, his tightly rolled bill at the ready. That shit was up his nose faster than Leon could fry an egg. He stayed on in the bathroom, making sure he didn’t bleed. He sang Pearl Jam’s Jeremy, swaying in front of the mirror. His reflection looked pretty good. Maybe he was too good for Roxanne Russo after all. Anyway, this was better.
So much better.
“You good?” Derek asked as Ty slumped back into the truck.
It was late when they got to Miss Sally’s. Ty had no idea what time. The moon was high in the black-as-pitch sky. The car door made a screeching sound when it swung open. Too loud for this quiet night.
Lights flickered from Miss Sally’s front window. Lights from the TV.
“Shit. Is she awake?” Derek said. “It’s almost midnight.”
“She falls asleep in front of the TV a lot.” Ty surprised himself, knowing this.
The front door wasn’t locked. Weird. Like she deserved to get robbed. Derek had been ready with a T-shirt-wrapped fist, but no need. They walked right in. Didn’t bother to take off their shoes. Miss Sally slept right through it, open-mouthed, in her plaid chair.
The house was strangely quiet. The TV muted. And the old-fashioned clock on th
e mantle didn’t make a sound. Its arms were frozen, as if time had stopped.
The only light came from the TV and it danced over her in an erratic pattern, changing the shadows of her sleeping face.
Creepy. She kind of looked dead. A shudder went through him.
While Derek hurried to one of the back rooms, Ty went to the ceramic lamp on the end table.
Derek’s voice rang in his mind: I mean, ‘parently she got more money than God. Wouldn’t know by the way she lives.
Derek might be here for some report. Ty was here for money. Money would solve everything. No more sneaking around, stealing from the diner. He’d have his own stash. Maybe get to that house down in Rensselaer himself somehow. Buy it straight up.
There was money in the lamp. Hidden there. He’d seen it on that TV show.
Inspecting the bottom of the lamp, though, he couldn’t find the hidden opening. Ty laughed at himself. Of course, he couldn’t find it. It was hidden.
Miss Sally stirred, and Ty jumped inside his skin. Then his skin wouldn’t quiet. Like his blood grew spikes, and poked him from inside out. With the lamp in one hand, he slapped his legs with the other, trying to stop it. That only made it worse.
“Where’s the money?” he said aloud, angry at the spikes in his blood getting in the way of everything. That euphoria from Stewart’s bathroom faded into an irritable, murky fog.
“Where’s the money?” He yanked the plug and pulled the cord from the lamp’s base.
Miss Sally, suddenly on her feet, blinked him into focus.
“Tyler? What are you doing here?”
Then something shifted. Her voice screeched like a bat. “You shouldn’t be in here. Get out of my house!”
The light from the TV made her look ghostly. Her polka-dot socks looked so funny and odd, he might have laughed a little. That’s when Derek came back.
He was still empty handed. Whatever they came in for—what was it again?—Derek hadn’t found it.
“The hell you doin’?”
“Derek Hogg? What is going on?” Miss Sally looked from one to the other, shaking her head like she kept saying no. “How did you get in here? What were you doing back there? Both of you, out!”