by J. J. McAvoy
Nope, not doing this shit.
Picking up the remote, I turned off the television, causing them both to look at me.
“Wyatt, your brother and I were about to talk about something important until your Gollum ass came over. So unless you have a good reason to be here I’m going to ask you to leave—”
“My girlfriend died today,” he said blankly, staring at me, and I froze. “Some high lunatic stabbed her. I tried to help her. He slashed my arm. I wanted to blame Ethan. But what was I going to say? Why did you stop supplying drugs to the city? It sounded senseless even to me.”
I looked at Ethan, but he was still just playing dead.
“Wyatt, I’m so sorry—”
“I need a place to stay for a few hours.” He went on, holding his hand up for the remote. When I gave it to him Ethan asked.
“Why not your own place?”
“Because people would come to check up on me. That is what happens when people like you,” he said, stuffing popcorn into his mouth. “Anyway, I really don’t have the energy to pretend to be sad in front of them, thanks to the crazy shifts I’ve been pulling.”
Wait, what?
“Pretend to be sad?” I repeated. “She was your girlfriend.”
“I slept with her a few times, we went out when I was bored, but I didn’t love her or even know her. Everyone else called her my girlfriend, so it would seem a little cruel to deny it now that she’s gone,” he replied, and I just stared at him as he drank and ate. “I came here because no one would find me and no one is dying here, so I can rest in peace, while I get the chance.”
“You aren’t even a little sad?”
He finally tore his brown eyes from the television to me. “Kind of. Like in a way you watch a deer get hit by a car sad. But that’s not sad enough. I think they expect me to be bawling or something. And if we must cry, we cry for family.”
“And if we must cry, we cry for family,” Ethan said, perfectly in sync with him.
Okay then. Walking over to him and lying back on Ethan’s chest, I just watched the movie with them.
“When are you going to kill the Finnegan brothers and get out of my city?” Wyatt took another long gulp of the scotch.
“If it’s your city, why the fuck are you asking me to save it? Why don’t you kill them yourself?” Ethan said under his breath.
“The Hippocratic oath,” Wyatt replied, and Ethan smacked the back of his head.
Wyatt paused for a moment and turned back. However, seeing me on his chest just smiling, he faced front again.
“The great Ethan Callahan, a man so dangerous people die even when he does nothing,” Wyatt muttered.
“Wyatt Callahan, a man so cunning he’s convinced the world he is an angel,” Ethan shot back.
“I—”
“Everyone but his siblings, of course. We know what you did in Boston,” Ethan said, and Wyatt froze, the bottle just at his lips. “I’m sure you did it for a good reason. Doesn’t change the fact that you did it, now, does it? That you’re just like the rest of us…both hero and villain. Savior and destroyer.”
Wyatt put the drink on the table, picking himself off the floor. “I’m going to sleep in the guest room.”
With that he walked away, but Ethan being who he was, needed to give the final blow. “One day, brother, you’re going to find out that you are much more villain than hero. Where will you hide then?”
Wyatt didn’t answer.
“You’re relentless,” I said to him when Wyatt was out of earshot.
“Someone has to be.”
TWENTY-FOUR
“Have I played the part well?
Then applaud as I exit!”
~ Emperor Augustus
FOURTEEN DAYS LATER
ETHAN
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, it’s been another heartbreaking day in Boston, with twelve more deaths, three of those due to a shoot-out with the police in Hyde Park, while the other nine were again the outcome of heroin overdoses, bringing the death toll to a ground-breaking eighty-seven people in the last twenty-one days since doctors at Boston Medical reported there might be a bad batch of drugs on the street. That means on average this drug has claimed four lives a day. Despite the warning, there hasn’t been an obvious drop in drug use. This morning Mayor Takahashi, along with Governor Vieira in a joint press conference have called for the FBI to intervene. This has already come on top of the massive push for stricter policing, a measure that has left many minority communities feeling even less protected...”
“Bagels…bagels...” I muttered to myself, opening the cabinets as the television blared in the background. “Ivy, where the hell are the bagels?” I yelled up at the ceiling.
“They’re finished!” she yelled back down.
“What do you mean they’re finished? We just bought them!”
“Well, we are going to have to buy more—”
“The reason why we just bought them is because we wanted to buy more for not having bagels the last time I asked!” How the hell did we go through so much so quickly?
“Why do you want bagels so badly?” she screamed down at me.
I just stood in the middle of the kitchen, baffled. She was insane. My wife was insane. “Why? Why? ’CAUSE I WANT TO EAT A SANDWICH, IVY!”
“STOP YELLING AT ME!”
Clenching my fist and jaw, breathing in, I spoke softer, “You can’t hear me unless I yell.”
“WHAT?”
“YOU CAN’T HEAR ME UNLESS I YELL!” I hollered because obviously now I was insane. Just fucking brilliant. Brilliant! Twenty-one days she and I had been on our own here. No, we weren’t locked. We went out, but still, every day it was just her and me. Some days it was paradise, while the next I was ready to pull my own hair out. This was how normal people lived? Fighting over food, the small as fuck master bed, on top of the even smaller bathroom, having to get tissues and her damn tampons? No wonder spouses killed each other so often. They seemed small issues, but after dealing with them day after day, it really started to nag at you. If I ever wanted to eat something, the most effort I had to make was a damn phone call…apparently that made me spoiled, so be it.
“Don’t get your knickers all in a damn twist. Jeez,” she muttered, coming into the kitchen and when she did the anger I had melted away. That easy. She was stunning. The white dress she wore clung to her breasts perfectly before flowing out at her waist. She even managed to curl her blond hair at the ends. Placing her purse on the counter, she walked to one of the drawers and pulled out…
“You can’t be serious,” I said, looking down at the tortilla.
“Do not discriminate against wheat,” she replied, placing it right in front of me. “And we’re about to go out. Why do you want to eat now?”
Frowning, I undid the tie for the damn tortilla. “Isn’t it common to sneak food into a show?”
She rolled her eyes at me and then took a step back, spinning. “How do I look?”
“Like you don’t want to go out,” I said, placing the ham down.
“Perfect.” She giggled, kissing my check as she stole a piece of bacon. “This looks good! Make me one too!”
Again I paused and then looked down at her. “Society has progressed just far enough that I am now making my own sandwiches without bothering my wife. Don’t push it.”
“Fine, let me starve.” She had the nerve to say as she ate one of the tortillas by itself.
“I’m sure you’ll make it, somehow.”
Reaching me, she grabbed a slice of tomato, holding it over her mouth and saying, “You married your first love. You should be more loving, don’t you think?”
I bit the side of my jaw in order to keep my mouth shut as she ate. Rolling the tortilla, I grabbed the knife and slammed it down in the middle, placing one in a baggy for me and the other for her.
“Thank you!” She smiled, opening her massive purse—at this point it was like a backpack—to put both of our food inside.
“What ar
e you doing—”
“You can’t hold the snacks when you go. You look uncool. You have to pull it out when the good part begins and then enjoy it,” she instructed, moving to grab some juice boxes, yes, juice boxes, because yes, she wanted them. When I told her it made more sense to buy the jug of juice she told me ‘when did rich people start warning about buying logically?’
“Do you need anything else?” she asked meanwhile she’d eaten 90 percent of it.
“Let’s just go,” I told her, wiping my hands.
“Napkins!” She snapped her fingers. Done arranging the napkins inside, she wrapped her arm around mine and followed me to the door.
“Do you have everything?” I asked.
“Yes, dad.” She groaned.
Rolling my eyes, I opened the door, stepping out first, and just like on the first night we’d arrived the street was crawling with people. Only a couple of the houses now had light…the electrical bills had gone up almost every year, but since my family knew how much people loved being here, we covered the cost and let them pay what they thought was fair price.
“They all notice us now,” Ivy whispered as we walked past the gates onto the street. When we did people moved, most out of fear, others just not wanting to be too close to us. It was of course a short walk, but it told a lot about how everyone was feeling tonight. Arriving once again in the backyard of the Finnegan brothers, where most of the neighborhood was once again, this time not drunk, nor nearly as cheerful as they were almost a month ago, I smirked when Cillian glanced over his shoulder, when the men around him all looked away from him.
“Nice suit.” I nodded at the black suit, shirt, and tie he wore.
“I knew you wouldn’t miss the chance,” he said emotionlessly.
“Of course, it’s a neighborhood meeting and we’re part of the neighborhood.” I bloody owned the neighborhood as it was anyway.
“About that…” His glare shifted onto Ivy, who was scanning the crowd carefully. “How much longer until you finish your business here, Ivy, and return to Chicago?”
Still not looking at him, she said, “The good thing about it being my business is that it’s my business and as such you can go fuck yourself.”
“Careful, cousin.” He stepped into her line of vision. “You forget whose house you’re in.”
She ignored him and turned to me. “Why did you say he had a nice suit? It looks like he stole it out of the morgue.” She then turned to him and asked, “Did you steal it from the morgue?”
“Would you like to go to the morgue and find out, bitch?” Elroy asked, pulling out a switch blade. He had a hockey mask that he held through the eye sockets with his knuckle gloves.
“Mr. and Mrs. Callahan,” Cillian cut in before I could, “let’s not waste any more time.”
“Of course,” I replied, walking over to the picnic bench. The teenagers there didn’t move. They even made a point to relax more. Looking away from them and above their heads at the trees, I really wondered why it was that people felt the need to test me. “Will you make them get up or will I have to?”
“Ask nicely like everyone else,” Cillian replied.
At that I shifted my eyes from the leaves to him. “I don’t get nicer than this.”
“How sad for you then.” He snickered. “You can stand in the back or leave.”
Ivy squeezed my arm to remind me why I was subjecting myself to this level of disrespect. Why the fuck were they all still breathing? If they only knew how that one action had spared them their lives tonight they’d kiss her feet.
“Babe,” Ivy said, reaching into her bag to pull out a red and white checkered picnic blanket.
Why the hell—let me not even ask. Though as she spread it out on the ground, the people she put it in front of glanced down at her like…like I was in my head. When she finished she stepped out of her heels, placing them by the side of the blanket, and sat down, crossing her legs. I sat beside her as she reached into her bag, pulling out the juice box and handing it to me before taking one for herself.
“I thought we weren’t trying to waste time?” Ivy asked him before sucking on her straw.
“Let’s get started.” Cillian nodded at the man beside him, ignoring her. Finally sipping on the apple juice, I watched as Cillian stepped forward to address the growing crowd. “Our neighborhood is nothing new to anyone here, and while I know many of you have found it to be a little primitive at times, you’ve never spoken out against it. We all know who founded this tradition. While we may not be fond of them”—he looked directly at me—“we must acknowledge that they have merit. However, seeing as we are no longer subjects of that family, we should decide here, does anyone wish to put an end to the meetings?”
Ivy flinched and I placed my hand on her thigh to calm her down. She needed to have faith. They wouldn’t vote to end the meetings.
“Are other neighborhoods stopping?” a woman with short brown hair asked.
“We aren’t other neighborhoods. This is all about you. It’s your choice. Not mine. Not the Callahans’. If we want to move away from this, that’s fine,” Cillian replied.
No one spoke for a moment.
“We can’t stop! I’m still waiting for that motherfucker to pay me back,” some man yelled, pointing to a man a couple people over.
“She almost killed my son! You stupid drunk whore!” a woman screamed.
“Tyler, I know it was you! Where is it? You stole it, didn’t you?”
From there, anarchy unfolded quickly with everyone screaming about the insults the others had inflicted on them.
“LET US VOTE!” Cillian had to yell, which made them calm down.
“Yea, let’s vote!” a few of them repeated.
“All for ending the meets?” he asked and no one raised their hands.
“All for continuing?”
Seeing their choice, I leaned over Ivy and whispered, “When you allow the majority to have a voice, the ones who are the angriest speak the loudest and when put between doing the right thing and being self-serving they will always choose themselves, which makes everyone else do the same.”
Everyone was ruthless. They just didn’t realize it.
“Fine, who’s first?” Cillian stepped back, and Elroy stepped up.
“Me!” Ivy rose, while I sat.
Elroy snickered. “You? Really, and while you’ve both been huddled in your little safe house, like cowards, who managed to harm you?”
Ivy lifted her finger to point to her right. “Her. Rory Donoghue, and now I’m seeking justice.”
The people around her shifted, allowing everyone to see her. There was not a sound…with the exception of me as I sucked the last of the juice and the crickets.
“I knew it!” Rory hollered, dressed in tight jeans and a blue Red Sox jersey. “I knew you’d still be pissed about Pierce! You weren’t even here!”
Pierce smugly shook his head. “Ivy—”
“Shut up. No one is speaking to or about you.” She put her hand up and then turned back to Cillian. “Seven years ago, Rory Donoghue, then Rory O’Davoren, hit and paralyzed a young dancer in Chicago. Instead of owning up to her crime, she framed me for it.”
“I did not.” Rory crossed her eyes, glaring.
“Do you have proof?” Cillian asked her. “Or are we all just supposed to take your word for it?”
“Babe.”
Reaching it my jeans, I pulled out the remote and pressed the power switch. All of their heads snapped up at the sudden light, which projected the car accident video onto the leaves of the tree. They watched, just as Ivy watched, as Rory framed her.
“Satisfied?” Ivy asked when I stopped it as Rory got into the passenger seat. It was then they all turned to Rory.
“It was an accident,” she said to them. “Ivy, it was an accident.”
“What is justice for you, Ivy?” Cillian asked her.
Ivy lifted her purse and flipped it over, dumping everything onto the picnic table. She picke
d the black baton, squeezing the handle for it to expand.
“IVY!” Rory yelled at her.
However, Ivy ignored her. “Three broken ribs, four broken fingers, busted jaw and eye socket, strangled and groped, which at the time I felt relieved it didn’t go further…that was my first year at Ricker Hill.”
This is hers.
This is hers.
This is her justice. I had to remind myself because the rage that was pouring into my soul was almost too much for me to bear.
Cillian walked up to her. “You want her to feel all of that? She’s your sister.”
“Stepsister,” Ivy corrected him, her face hard, eyes unflinching. “And no, I want her to feel seven years’ worth of that.”
“You’ll kill her—”
“THEN SHE DIES!” Ivy screamed at Pierce as he stepped up.
“Cillian! She doesn’t have proof that she was hurt that badly!” Elroy yelled from behind him. “I hear that they give you three square meals and you’ll get TVs and what not. I’m sure it ain’t as bad—”
“Babe!” Ivy yelled to me, and I pushed the button once more. Photos of her appeared on the screen, all of which I had to force myself to look at. The bruises that covered her face, those on her sides, they were all time stamped, but then you didn’t even need them to see her progressively get older…hopeless.
Cillian tore his eyes away to glare at her. “Aye, and the man who loved you from childhood never came to save you.”
“After she began to date a certain pig I pushed her out of my mind and never looked at her until recently—”
“IT DOESN’T MATTER!” Ivy screamed, shaking now. “He does not matter right now! I matter. I didn’t know him then. I thought like everyone else he was worse than the devil. He owed me nothing. But you did.”
“Ivy—”
“Do not call my name!” She pointed the baton at Pierce then faced her cousins again. “Cillian, where were all of you when it was me? WHERE WERE YOU? I wasn’t a Callahan then. I was an O’Davoren! I was part of the neighborhood then. I stood by you then! I was your cousin! Your blood and you did not protect me. So I protected myself. Now I ask for justice and you stand in my way again? Have the rules changed? When Jimmy stole Mrs. Renshaw’s wedding rings he had both his hands broken. Justice isn’t equality, it is punishment. We voted for that, didn’t we? Or was that you just showboating? Are you going to let your personal vendetta against my husband ignore the vote? If so, tell me now and I’ll get justice another way. And it won’t just be her but all of you.”