Cave Man's Captive

by Juliana Conners

  “All right Ramsey!”

  “You’re going to win this!”

  “He’s really good!”

  My own fans sound incredulous, which would be funny if I weren’t so intent on winning. I get Carl into a choke hold.

  The referee is kneeling down close, waiting for Carl to tap out, and everyone is shouting that I’m going to win by submission. I twist my arm tighter around him, starting to think he’s invincible, but then he finally taps out, right before he engages in some strange, drunken-like swinging motions with his arms, and passes out.

  “You okay, man? Carl?”

  I ask, but the ref is already pulling me up, thinking I intend to keep going after Carl.

  After about thirty seconds, he comes to, blinking and shaking his head as if he doesn’t know where he is. Then he figures it out, with an angry look on his face, and stands up in a huff.

  “Hey man, good fight,” I tell him, but he just says “hrmph.”

  He shakes his head at me, like he can’t believe I took him down. Neither can I, actually.

  “And the winner, by submission, is Ramsey Bradford.”

  My brothers rush onto the practice ring, disregarding the presence of both Carl and the ref. They practically jump on me, hugging me and shouting in my ears.

  “Good job Ramsey!”

  “You’re really good!”

  “You might have a real future in this.”

  I laugh. A practice fight with Carl is nothing like fighting professionally, or even as an amateur. But I appreciate their support and enthusiasm all the same.

  “Now let’s go get a beer!” Jensen says.

  “Not yet,” I say. “I need a shower. And we all agreed to talk to Mom, remember?”

  Everyone groans, but nods. I’m just glad that we’re getting it out of the way. And that I have this unexpected victory to help keep my spirits up while we do it.

  ***

  “So, Mom, as you know, I’ve been looking for an assisted living facility for you to stay in while I’m gone,” I tell her, carefully. “And I found one.”

  We’re all gathered in my living room, although Mom was an unwilling participant.

  “I know,” she practically spits at me. “You had to bring everyone here just to gloat about sticking me away somewhere for good.”

  “Ma, just listen to what Ramsey is trying to say,” Harlow urges him.

  “Yes, Mom. Please listen.” I keep my voice even and calm. “They are able to take you now or at any time in the near future. But. We’ve all come up with another solution, that you might like better.”

  She looks at me suspiciously, but with a glimmer of interest.

  “Jensen and Riley have offered to have you live with them while I’m gone,” I say, nodding in their direction.

  Jensen nods.

  “But, there are conditions,” I tell her.

  She glares at me.

  “Well, it’s nice to hear that not all of my sons want to dump me out in the cold,” she says, nodding at Jensen, which is her way of thanking him. “But I don’t like the sound of ‘conditions.’ I’m not a little child.”

  “We know that, Mom,” I say. “But, as I’ve told you, you can’t just come and go as you please, staying out for all hours or for days at a time. We worry about you. You also can’t drink. You’re supposed to be in recovery.”

  “You were doing so good with that for a while, Mom,” says Harlow, looking wistful. Sometimes my heart breaks for him, for the little boy he was when Mom left us, and for the part of him that will always be that abandoned child, continually let down. “What happened with that?”

  “I told Ramsey,” she says, defensively. “I just needed to have a little break. A little fun, is all. I’m back to not drinking.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Jensen says. “Because our offer is only good as long as you’re following the rules. Not drinking, not going out without letting us know when and returning at an appropriate hour, not yelling or cursing at us.”

  “You make me sound like some monster,” Mom says. “I can do as I please. I’m a grown woman. Why would I want to live with people who treat me like this?”

  “Well, that’s up to you, Mom,” I say. “You can go into assisted living, or you can go with Jensen and Riley. It’s really your choice.”

  She crosses her arms and glares at us. I leave out the third option, because she already knows about it. She was already doing it before I took her in. Living on the street or with a random guy.

  “I’ll give it a try,” she says, reluctantly.

  “Great,” I respond, glad she’s acquiescing, albeit while putting up a little fight. “And just so we’re clear, I’ve informed assisted living that you might be coming. If you don’t follow the rules that Jensen and Riley set, you’ll be transferred there instead.”

  “Ramsey, you don’t have to patronize me,” she says. “I hear you loud and clear. And I’d rather be dead on the street before I wind up at some old folks’ home.”

  “Well, we look forward to your stay with us,” Riley says, smiling.

  Mom glares at her, as if the feeling isn’t mutual.

  Riley really must be a saint.

  With that matter finally settled, everyone gets up to leave. We have plans to meet up at Elephant Bar for appetizers and drinks. It’s obvious that we all want to say, “Time for that beer!” but not in front of Mom.

  I walk them out and say, “See you guys soon,” under my breath.

  I open the mailbox at the front of the house and look through it as they nod their goodbyes. Harlow and Whitney get into Harlow’s car and Jensen and Riley onto Jensen’s motorcycle.

  Something in the stack of mail catches my eye. It’s a plain brown package, but it has Monica’s name as the return address.

  I wave at my brothers and their ladies as they leave, and go back inside.

  “I hope you’re happy, with your scheming little plans…”

  My mom is saying, but I wave her off.

  “I’ll talk to you later, Mom,” I tell her. “I need to be somewhere.”

  I sit down on my bed and open the package. It’s a CD. And a note.

  Dear Ramsey,

  I feel I left on less than a good note than I would have liked. I wanted to let you know that I had a great time, Just For One Weekend. I’ve put together a ‘mixtape’ of sorts, like back when we were kids. It’s a soundtrack, of our time together. I hope that when you listen to it, you will know that I’m thinking of you, and fondly remembering the time that we shared.

  Your partner in secrecy and in musical journeys,

  Monica

  I can’t believe it. Part of me wants to throw the package away, because I have a feeling that once I listen to the songs, I won’t ever be able to forget Monica. Not that I’m so sure I could, anyway.

  The weaker part of me wins. I put the CD into my computer and upload the songs, so that I can play them in MP3 version on my phone, in the Jeep.

  “Bye, Mom, I’m headed out.”

  “Whatever.”

  She’s sniffling like a child on the couch.

  On my way to the Elephant Bar, I start the music. Our soundtrack. That Monica made me.

  And as the music washes over me, filling up the Jeep just like it did when Monica was riding in it with me, I think I may be starting to form my first inkling of what love is.

  Chapter 19 – Monica

  1 Week Later

  “I found you!” I call out, peering behind the curtain and then tickling Becky.

  “No you didn’t, I’m not here!” she protests. “I even made it so that you wouldn’t think I was here!”

  “I know. Good job!”

  A couple days ago, some of her toys and dolls appeared, lined up in front of the curtains. This was obviously a planned ruse, because today she was hiding in the very corner of the curtains, and I’d had to move all the obstacles to check.

  “I almost didn’t find you before the timer went off,” I told her, seriou
sly impressed with her strategy. “But I did! I see you! I win this round!”

  I pick her up and she resists, lightly pounding her small hands against my chest and saying, “You can’t see me! I’m invisible.”

  “Ouch!” I say, putting her down and rubbing my breasts.

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Monica!” she says, pouting. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No honey, it’s okay.”

  My breasts feel swollen and tender, as if someone much larger than Becky had beat them up. And I know it isn’t her fault— they’re just naturally feeling this way. To make matters work, when I set her down, I feel nauseous, as if I’m about to throw up.

  I can’t possibly be pregnant, I think. There’s just no way.

  I try to set aside the gnawing thought, by smiling at Becky and getting back to the matter at hand.

  “I think we have time for one more round before your mom comes home,” I tell her. “Which should be any minute now. And as long as Mason doesn’t wake up from his nap.”

  I turn my head towards the baby monitor, which shows my nephew sleeping soundly upstairs in his crib.

  “All right,” she says, “But I’m going to find you. And then I’ll still be ahead! You found me this time, but not next time!”

  I laugh, then turn on the counter above the kitchen stove, as she closes her eyes and begins counting.

  My niece takes after me. She’s cutthroat and competitive. Even what started out as a simple game of hide and seek has turned into an endless tally of who’s winning and by how much. At the end of each week, the loser had to do the other’s laundry.

  Becky’s too young to do it on her own, anyway, but Susan assigned it to her as a chore to start teaching her responsibility. Usually Susan or I help her wash, dry, sort, fold and put away the clothes. But when she wins hide & seek, I have to do the honors.

  And when I win, she has to do mine in addition to hers— which kind of puts an unfair burden on Susan, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s glad that Becky has someone to watch her and to be competitive against.

  I head to the dining room, where I myself had scoped out a good hiding place earlier today. While Becky was taking her nap, I’d cleared out the entire bottom portion of the china hutch, and now I slink in and close the cupboard doors behind me. I’d put some fabric over the glass windows, and I can vaguely see out to the living room, where Becky’s still counting.

  “Ready or not, here I come!” she shouts.

  I watch her look for me behind the couch and in the hallway closet, as if I’m some kind of amateur.

  Then, the doorbell rings.

  Damn it, I think. Susan’s already back from running her errands. She probably wants help carrying in the groceries. She’s going to come in and ruin everything, once she figures out that instead of her nice wedding china that were a gift to her and my brother Mark when they got married, I’m in her china cupboard!

  I’m not about to give up my hiding place and lose the round, especially when I’m already in trouble anyway. I’ll just have to explain to Susan that it was for the good of the game, and her daughter’s character. Becky used to pout when she didn’t win, but now she just thinks of a new strategy for the next game.

  Suddenly, I think, Why did Susan ring the doorbell? She knows better. I’m surprised Mason didn’t wake up.

  I can barely see Becky answer the front door, but I hear her say, “Hello! I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

  Then I hear a male voice say, “I’m not a stranger. I’m a friend of your Aunt Monica’s.”

  Oh my god.

  Ramsey.

  I pull up the fabric, squinting to see as far as the front door in the living. Sure enough, he’s standing there, holding flowers.

  “Oh. Then you can help me find her,” says Becky, and opens the door for him. “And help me win the game.”

  It’s all I can do to not let out a squeal of excitement.

  But I can’t afford to lose this round. I’m behind by two.

  Chapter 20 – Ramsey

  I had spent the whole flight pondering all the different possibilities that could happen when I randomly show up at Monica’s house. Maybe she wouldn’t be home. Maybe she’d have a guy over, which would be very awkward.

  Maybe she’d hate me for showing up announced, and tell me to go back home. Maybe the return address on the package she’d sent me with the soundtrack in it wasn’t even hers, or she’d think I was a stalker for saving it.

  Maybe she’d moved away or was out of town, and I wouldn’t even be able to find her. Maybe— and of course, this is the one I’d hoped for— she’d collapse into my arms with surprise and happiness.

  But of all the situations I imagined, I have to admit, a kid answering Monica’s door wasn’t one of them.

  I decide to just roll with it. Since Monica doesn’t seem to be appearing, I obviously don’t have much choice. And it’s rather amusing.

  “What’s your name?” I ask the little girl.

  “Becky. And I’m four.”

  “Nice to meet you Becky. I’m Ramsey. And I’m old.”

  Becky laughs, and I’m hoping that Monica will too. It would make finding her go a lot faster. But she doesn’t let out a peep.

  Guess I’ll have to try harder.

  “Where is her favorite place to hide?” I ask Becky.

  She shrugs.

  “If I knew that, I’d always win,” she says.

  “Good point. I guess she can’t make it that easy on you.”

  She glances up at me, in a way that looks eerily similar to Monica.

  “She doesn’t make it easy on me,” she says.

  “I guess that doesn’t surprise me.”

  “I’m going to be just like her when I grow up,” she says.

  “It sounds like you already are.”

  “Now I just need to find her. Are you going to help me or what?”

  “All right, all right. Let me think. Did you check the bathtub? I hear she likes to take bubble baths. Maybe she’s soaking in there with a good book, while we’re going through all the trouble to find her.”

  Becky laughs again, and I hear a stifled giggle from somewhere in the next room over.

  “She’s in the dining room!” Becky exclaims.

  She grabs my hand and leads me in there. We look under the table, and around the corner towards the kitchen, but there’s no Monica.

  “Hmmm,” I say. “There really aren’t that many places to hide in here. We’ve about explored all our options.”

  “Tell another funny joke,” she says.

  “Okay,” I say, trying to think of one on the spot. “But you’re putting me under a lot of pressure here.”

  “Hurry up!” Becky says impatiently, pointing towards a timer sitting on top of the stove in the kitchen. “We’re almost out of time.”

  “Okay, okay, okay. Why did the female fighter pilot paint her plane pink?”

  “I don’t know? Let me think.” Becky scrunches up her cute, still baby-like nose. “So that it would match her toenails?”

  I can’t help but laugh at that.

  “No, but that’s a good one,” I say. “Even better than the real answer.”

  “Well?” Becky taps her foot. “Why did she?”

  “To shut up the douchebag guys, so they can’t make that old tired joke anymore.”

  That does it. There’s an eruption of laughter from the china cupboard. I see a flap of fabric fall down in front of the glass window, where Monica must have been watching us.

  “There she is! We found her! Yay!”

  Becky runs over to the cupboard and pulls the doors open. Monica is scrunched up in an uncomfortable-looking position, laughing loudly now.

  “Ramsey, you shouldn’t say those things to a child,” she scolds me, although she’s still smiling.

  “What things?” My face is a mask of innocence.

  “‘Douchebag,’ she whispers under her breath. “And ‘shut up’…”

  “
I’m still winning!” Becky says, dancing around the dining room, not paying any attention to the words I shouldn’t have said in front of her. “Hooray! Thank you, Ramsey!”

  She runs back over to me and throws her arms around my legs. I look at Monica and shrug, sheepishly.

  “We both had an interest in finding her,” I say.

  I walk over to the china cupboard and extend a hand, to help Monica out.

  “Thanks,” she says, uncurling her legs and arms. “I was pretty squished in there. And it was all for nothing. I didn’t even win, thanks to Becky’s cheating!”

  When she’s all the way out of the cupboard, I pull her close to me, and we hug. It’s a long, strong hug that shows me she’s glad I’m here.

  “I didn’t cheat!” Becky protests. “There’s no rule against asking for help!”

  I lean down to kiss Monica, and Becky says, “Is this the Prince you met on your trip?”

  “Shhhh! Becky!”

  Monica’s face turns bright red.

  “Thank you, Prince Ramsey, for helping me find your princess,” Becky says.

  “And now he can help me put these dishes back before your mom gets home and kills me,” Monica says.

  She goes to the pantry in the kitchen and retrieves some of the plates. I pick up some more and follow her back to the dining room.

  Suddenly, we hear a piercing wail. It sounds like someone is on fire.

  My instincts kick in, and I say, “What’s wrong? Who needs help?”

  Monica laughs and says, “It’s just Mason. The baby. The clattering of the dishes must have woken him up.”

  She looks hesitantly towards the top of the stairs, and I say, “Go ahead and go get him. Becky and I can put these plates away.”

  I wink at her, and she throws me a grateful look before heading upstairs.

  When she comes back down, she’s carrying a little boy, who is looking around in sleepy confusion.

  “This is Mason,” she says, and Becky adds, “My little brother. He throws up a lot.”

  “Hello, Mason.”

  I pretend to shake his hand, not really knowing how to introduce myself to a baby, and he curls his tiny finger around mine.