He'd managed to tune out the noise, at least until his own door received a knock. He stared at it in disbelief.
It was tempting to ignore her and go back to watching theories on NASA's involvement in the alien moon bases. He let Sharon knock a second time, but knew he wouldn't let the door go unanswered. He wished he could. It simply wasn't in his nature. The late hour or not, to ignore her would be rude.
He opened the door and was surprised at what greeted him.
It was Sharon, like he thought, but he wasn't expecting her expression. Tears ran down her face, ruining her makeup. She wore a dress and heels, looking like she'd spent the night on the town. Her son stood next to her, his hands deep in his pockets, his gaze to the floor. Sharon kept a protective hand on his shoulder. Sharon and John fought often, but he didn't know it led to tears.
"Sharon?" he said. He wouldn't call her a friend, not even an acquaintance, but they'd seen each other enough in passing to be on a first name basis. "Is everything okay?"
Her lip quivered before she gained her composure.
"Hi, Brady. I…uh, saw your light on under the door. I know it's late, but I was hoping you could help me. I tried Mrs. Ridley, but she didn't answer."
He suppressed the sarcasm. Of course, she didn't answer. Like Sharon said, it's late. Mrs. Ridley was probably asleep.
"What's going on?"
"Could you watch Chad? Just for twenty minutes?"
The question was so obvious, but he didn't see it coming. Brady never imagined she would impose on him the way she did the Ridleys. He knew close to nothing about Chad, except he liked gaming. He could hear the PlayStation through the floor at odd hours of the night.
"I don't know," he said, amazed at the situation he was in.
"Please," Sharon said, her tone bordering on desperate. "I just…need to talk to my husband."
He almost couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth.
"Just twenty minutes?"
"Yeah, I promise. I'll be right back up. Okay?" She rubbed the back of Chad's shoulder, seeking his confirmation as well. "Okay?"
Chad simply shrugged. Even as Brady stepped aside to let him in he couldn't help but feel he was making a huge mistake.
"Thank you," Sharon said, rubbing at her eyes. "Thank you so much. Just twenty minutes."
He closed the door behind him, staring at Chad the entire time. The boy stood behind the couch and studied the apartment. Brady tried to give him a smile as he squeezed past him. Chad barely looked up. Already, the air was thick with awkwardness.
"You want anything to drink?" Brady asked, heading to the kitchen. "Anything to eat?"
There wasn't a response, so Brady glanced behind him. When they finally made eye contact Chad shook his head. Brady felt bad for the kid. Not every foster home he lived in was rough, but he'd seen his share of arguing. It could wear down a child, always dancing around the tension in a household.
Sometimes arguing led to much worse.
"Have a seat," Brady said, carrying a bag of chips. "Damn, relax. You're making me tense."
Chad said nothing, but circled around the couch and sat in the chair in the corner. Brady snacked while he searched for something on YouTube.
"You want to watch something? What do you like?"
The arguing resumed beneath them. Brady found himself turning up the volume, trying to drown them out. Chad glanced at the floor, and Brady could see the shock on his face. Chad never realized his parents' fights were public knowledge throughout the building.
"We've never really been introduced," Brady said. "My name's Brady."
"I know who you are," Chad said, only looking up for a moment. "Everyone says you're that weird guy on the top floor."
Brady blinked in surprise before letting out a laugh. "Seriously? Why the hell do they call me that?"
"Because you don't have a car. You don't drive."
He shook his head. If only the people living around him knew how weird he was.
"I save a lot of money." He held up a hand, ready to counter. He would have done anything to take their minds off the voices below, even debate with a ten-year-old. "I don't have a car payment. I don't have to buy gas. Or get a car fixed."
"You'll never get a girlfriend," Chad said. "Girls don't like guys who don't have a car."
Brady couldn't stop smiling. "I guess you've got me there. But you think I'm weird? Girls are a lot weirder."
Chad returned the smile. Brady thought he could see the protective barriers breaking, at least a little.
"Yeah," he agreed. "The girls in my school. They're all weird."
Brady nodded and stood up once again, gesturing to the kitchen.
"Let's get some food. You drink soda?"
Chad rose to his feet, but hesitated, not moving from the living room.
"Mom says I shouldn't eat junk food so late."
Brady scowled at the otherwise good advice.
"She probably says you shouldn't be up at midnight in a stranger's apartment, either. Coke?"
Chad's eyes lit up. Whether it was the lure of caffeine and snacks, or the chance to finally enjoy a distraction, he finally relaxed.
"Yeah, please."
Thirty minutes later they were in the middle of breaking every possible rule a parent could set for a young child. Brady and Chad munched on chips and pretzels. A two-liter bottle of half-empty soda sat on the coffee table. Real-life ghost videos had crept their way onto Brady's recommended viewing list, and one streamed after another. The supernatural was often lumped together with aliens, so Brady wasn't surprised when the occasional ghost clip popped up with his aliens.
There were scattered outbursts from below. Brady glanced at Chad, but the young boy was engrossed in the TV.
"So, you go to school around here?" Brady asked, to fill the silence. "You like sports or anything?"
"Baseball," he said. "I like to play baseball."
Brady laughed at his only memory of attempting baseball.
"I tried that, one time, when I was a kid. Practiced forever, and in my first ever at-bat, I got beaned in the head. Fastest baseball career, ever."
Chad smiled. I'm a pitcher. I would have nailed him good the next time he came up."
"The couple I was staying with yanked me out, wouldn't let me play again." Brady left out the part about it not being for his safety, but how they were embarrassed when he cried.
"Your parents actually came?" Chad lowered his gaze. "My mom wants to come, but Dad doesn't let her."
"I never had parents. Just fosters. I bounced around a lot."
"So lucky."
Brady wanted to educate him, teach him about the downfalls of the foster care system. He had no doubt some children ended up having wonderful, loving experiences. But he was not one of them.
He said nothing, choosing instead to draw on his own experiences, impart some wisdom. There wasn't much he hadn't seen in his time with so many different families. Parents that hated each other, abused their children, abused their pets, did drugs, adultery. When he was only sixteen he had his own case of watching an alcoholic husband taking things too far.
"Your mother loves you," Brady said. "She does. She just doesn't know how to handle your father."
"He's nice sometimes. But when he's not…." Chad trailed off, and Brady could only imagine what horrors circled in his head. "I wish she would leave him."
Brady wished he could tell him there was a happy ending. That his mother would realize her husband wasn't good for her, separate, meet a new man that loved to bake cakes and play catch in the yard. The chances for that path weren't good. All he could hope to do was survive and not lose himself. If Chad was lucky he'd grow up to be a well-adjusted young man. Or he could grow up to be a porn collecting, alien obsessed freak.
"It's tough right now," Brady said. "But it will get better. Soon, you'll be in high school. You'll have after-school crap to do, friends that can drive. It'll open up for you. You won't be stuck at home so much, watching y
our parents battle."
He realized the advice sounded terrible the moment the words left his mouth. It was all Brady had to offer, besides snacks and soda. Counselors and teachers could fill Chad's head with smoke and nonsense. Brady knew the world worked differently, and if Chad didn't know it, he would soon enough. He remembered the look on his guidance counselor's face when he told him his foster father spent the evenings locked in the bedroom smoking crack. The counselor promised he'd look into it, and nothing ever happened.
"High school," Chad said. "That's so far away."
Brady laughed. "Believe me, not as far as you'd—"
A loud thud from below interrupted him, followed by a short scream. Chad jumped to his feet, Brady not far behind. He listened intently and thought he heard quiet crying. He took in Chad's expression. The young boy didn't seem surprised, only frightened.
"Sometimes, when they fight—"
Brady held up a hand, knowing all too well. He could almost see the violence in his mind. An open-handed slap, maybe a closed fist.
"Yeah, I get it."
He headed for the bedroom, ready to pick up the phone. Holding the receiver to his ear, he'd only managed to dial the first nine when his hand stayed.
Calling the police would do no good.
They would come, maybe even take John away. But Sharon wouldn't press charges. Then the beatings would get worse, maybe even spilling over to Chad.
He felt sick doing nothing, but he'd seen it with his own eyes. Sharon would lash out at him, accusing him of not minding his own business, of interfering with her family.
"B-Brady?"
He turned at the sound of his name. Chad stood at the bedroom doorway. His eyes were glassy with the beginning of tears. He pointed with a thumb over his shoulder.
"Someone's knocking at the door."
Moving past the boy, Brady crossed the apartment to the front door. He checked the peephole first, to make sure it wasn't a drunk, angry father wanting to claim his son. All he saw was the figure of a woman pacing on the landing, with a head of long hair. He opened the door and eyed her up and down.
Sharon stopped pacing and tried to compose herself. As she reached up and brushed hair away from her face, Brady saw her hand tremble. She forced a smile that wouldn't have won her any acting awards. She stood awkwardly, trying to keep the left side of her face hidden.
"Thank you, Brady. I'm…so sorry it took so long."
He shook his head at her concern. "It's okay. Is everything alright?"
"Yeah," she lied. "Where's Chad?" She peered over Brady's shoulder and spotted her son, nearly hiding in the kitchen archway. Only his head and shoulders were visible. "Chad? Are you ready to go?"
Chad approached slowly. Brady leaned in close before Chad drew within earshot.
"This isn't going to end well," he whispered. "You know that, right? Do you want me to call the police?"
She turned to face him, revealing the red mark under her eye. In another day that red would turn to purple and blue. Brady winced at the sight of it, drawing a look from Sharon. Her lip quivered for a moment, before her eyes hardened.
"We're fine," she said shortly. "Chad? Are you ready?"
Chad stopped when he saw his mother's bruise. He clenched his fists as his whole body went rigid with anger.
"Mom?" he said. "What happened?"
"It's okay, sweetie. We're going to spend the night at your grandmother's house."
Chad was smart. He didn't need an explanation. He didn't ask any questions. Brady watched as Chad slowly shuffled across the carpet. He remembered that feeling of helplessness quite well, of being desperate for the night to end so he could go to school to escape.
"I'll see you later, man," Brady said, trying to keep his tone upbeat. "Don't tell your mom what you ate."
He gave Chad a light slap on the shoulder as he passed. The boy flinched, much more than he should have. He looked up awkwardly at Brady as he moved his arm in circles, like he was stretching. Looking to the carpet, he shoved his hands deep in his pockets. The shy boy had returned once again, unable to even look Brady or his mother in the eye.
Brady's gaze met Sharon's, and no words were necessary. The look on her face told the story. She was unaware her husband was beating their child. The tears streamed down her face, onto her nice dress.
"Let's get moving, dear."
She reached for his shoulder, but quickly pulled her hand back. That simple gesture was enough to almost send her over the edge. Her face twitched as she tried to hold in sobbing. Brady felt for both of them.
He made a decision. Chad would not go through what he did.
"Hey," Brady called.
Mother and son turned to face him from the landing. He offered Chad a small smile.
"Remember what I said. Things will get better."
Chad didn't seem convinced.
"Yeah, sure. High school."
"Actually, maybe sooner than that."
Chad simply waved before descending the stairwell. Sharon stayed behind for a moment, watching her son.
"It won't get better," she whispered, crying once again. "It's getting worse. John, he's…." She struggled to say it. "Hitting our son. Me is one thing. I can take it. But our son…."
She gripped the railing on the landing, to keep her balance. Brady said nothing, simply watching from the doorway. He had nothing to offer that she didn't already know.
"We had a good night," she said. "Just us, out having fun. But, when he drinks…."
Sharon looked up, and she'd collected herself somewhat. She wiped at her eyes and smiled, deciding she'd shared enough of her life with Brady.
"Thanks again for watching Chad," she said. "We'll be away, so it should be quiet. Maybe John will sleep it off. Have a good night. Or morning. Whatever it is."
Brady nodded. He watched Sharon follow her son down the stairs and leave the building. His eyes drifted to the floor, thinking about the apartment beneath him.
For John, at least, the night was just starting.
*****
Sharon was wrong.
John didn't sleep it off.
He drank another beer, spilling half on the couch. He watched boxing on TV, and sent a few saucy text messages to a woman that he was interested in at work. He called out to Sharon a few times, each time forgetting that she wasn't home.
Finally, he went on a bit of a rampage when Sharon refused to answer his phone call. Knocked over a lamp. Punched a hole in the kitchen wall. He cursed at Chad's baseball gear in the corner of the living room. Chad's uniform was folded neatly, sitting next to two bats and three gloves. John had told Chad, time after time, to keep the gear in his bedroom, where it belonged. He grabbed a bat and swung at the arm of the couch, cracking the support inside. Grabbing the uniform, he tossed it across the room. The gloves weren't innocent either, and received a kick just for being there.
It was nearly two in the morning when he passed out on the couch. His shirt was wrapped around his neck, from when he tried to remove it, but failed. He'd bumped into the coffee table on the way to the cushions, and a beer bottle sat on its side, spilling onto the carpet.
If John weren't so angry, or drunk, or if he paid even the slightest amount of attention to his son's life, he would have realized that Chad didn't own three baseball gloves.
Chad only had two.
CHAPTER 7
Brady heard and saw everything, even though he didn't have ears and eyes. It was a mystery how his senses worked when he changed shape. He was only glad they did.
Sneaking into the apartment was easy. He could change into a liquid form as well as a solid. It was trivial to slide under the gap in the door, ooze his way across the floor, and change into a ten-year-old's baseball glove.
Usually, the difficult part about changing into an inanimate object was the boredom. He imagined becoming a towel in the women's locker room might be fun, not that he ever went that far. But sitting on the floor, his shape molded into that of leather desi
gned to catch baseballs, could potentially be boring. He even slid in and out of sleep, another mystery. He could sleep after taking another form.
But John's antics definitely kept him awake.
Brady hadn't realized how bad the situation was in the apartment beneath him, and the guilt needled him. Everyone knew John and Sharon were combustible. But violence? He had no idea, and certainly didn't hear it in the whispers around the building. Anger crept in, at the thought of the people living around him being concerned more with his weirdness than a mother and son that needed help.
But he had no room to complain. He didn't notice either, and he should have. Brady had experience with a father making him cower in the corner.
Chad would never have to worry about cowering again.
After John destroyed his living room and fell unconscious on the couch, Brady shifted. His leather form melted onto the floor, turning into a thick liquid. He slid across the carpet, slowly and quietly, just as comfortable without a physical body as a mass of goo.
His shape flowed upward, turning into a pillar. From his center mass two arms formed, but he held there. His vision rotated from John to the balcony door. His original plan was to stay in the apartment. The goal was to terrify John, and invading a safe haven would go a long way. Brady remembered when one of his foster mothers would occasionally rearrange his room, just to prove the point that it was her room, not his.
He changed his mind. The apartment was dark, and he wouldn't have minded a little more room.
John's eyes opened.
His mouth moved to scream, but Brady collapsed on him, covering John with his essence. John struggled against Brady's heavy mass, but it was no use. Brady let some of his form flow into John's mouth, stifling any shouts. He was careful not to go too deep into the nasal cavity. He didn't want to suffocate the drunk.
He forced aside the thought of how gross it was, feeling the inside of John's mouth.
Brady slithered across the apartment, but not slowly. He could move surprisingly fast even without legs. John was trapped along for the ride, his body stuck within Brady's own form. Only his nose and eyes were free. An occasional arm would shoot out, but Brady would spread his mass once again around the loose appendage, locking him in place.
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