Jayden's Revenge: The Tale of an American Family (3 page)

From her son’s bedroom
window,
Brenda
sees
Derrick
rounding the corner and making his way up the drive.
She was
n’t expecting her husband home so soon.
This won’t do at all
she th
inks
as she realize
s
that Jayden isn’t with him.
She lets loose
a piercing
shriek
and storms away from the shuttered windows.
Did I re-lock the front door?
She wonders.

She ducks into Philip
’
s bathroom and suddenly remembers that she saw a Louisville Slugger
, Philip
’
s lucky bat,
jammed into the umbrella holder thingy
by
the front door. She makes a frantic dash
, thinking
this is going to be hairy
as she rounds the corner to the hallway and sees Derrick
’
s considerable shadow in the window nearest the door. Just as she reaches the door
,
she slips and falls to one knee, her momentum carrying her into the carpet face first. Bolts of intense heat fill her cheek and jaw as she skids to a halt on the Berber carpet. She wants to scream
again because
the pain is so intense
, but
s
he fight
s her coughs of agony and pushe
s herself upright
. C
arpet tacks tear little divots from her face as she pulls away from the floor and she hears the key grind into the tumblers.
On the other side of the door, she hears h
er estranged husband coughing. She pulls the baseball bat silently from its basket and darts back down the hallway
to the first door on the left
.

Where are my shoes? Oh
hell
,
where are my shoes?

Brenda is in a full panic, heart pounding, gasping for breath but holding
it
at the same time. Her lungs are burning as if she were running a marathon.
The right side of h
er face is red and flush from the excitement
, but the red on the left side
speckled with blood
, the skin growing tighter already and her vision blurred from tears. She wonders how bad the damage is. The
front
door opens as she reaches Philip’s room; she turns the handle and eases the door
closed
, praying that it will not squeak into the jamb.

She hears Derrick shouting, asking after his intruder, “
Hello,
is anyone here?”
S
uddenly s
he knows where her shoes are
.
She left them at the door, next to the umbrella holder
thing
-
a
-
ma
-
bob;
j
ust
as
she has for the past ten
years,
(
her pet peeve
was when the kids
, or a drunken Derrick,
would track mud through the house)
.
He has seen the shoes, he knows I’m here.
Why is she so scared?
Is
n’t this why she came here; to confront him for putting her in that awful place? They treated her so badly in there.
It’s not right if that little
demon
isn’t here
,
too! Where is that sour little
bitch
?

She
ma
kes
her way into the shower and is cowered down under
the
showerhead by the time she hears the bedroom door open. She is clutching her dead son
’
s Louisville Slugger so tight
ly
that her knuckles
are
swollen and white. She can feel the rosin from his last at
-
bat sticking to her palms
,
squishing between her deadlocked digits. This isn’t what she had in mind, but she readies herself to club him if he gets to the shower curtain
. H
e never does. The
drunken buffoon
could never remember that there was a bathroom in here when their son was alive
and it was time to clean
; why would he suddenly get a flash of brilliance now? She remain
s
there
,
silent
,
until she hear
s
a
familiar
clatter coming from the kitchen.

Derrick, fearing that he
,
too
,
is
becoming a paranoid schi
zophrenic, decide
s
that he
is
w
ound too tight and that he need
s
to calm himself as he
has
suggested
to his remaining child. He goes
to the restroom to void his bladder
, empties his pockets in search of his cheap cigarette lighter,
and
ignites
a candle on the counter. It
is
something he
has
bought to promote relaxation,
aromatherapy
or some other
crap
; let it filter through the house.

He goes into the kitchen, over
to the stove to put some water on the boil, grabbing a pot from under the sink and a
n
oversized coffee mug
from the dishwasher before starting the sink running. Once the fire
is going he rummages
through the cupboard for some herbal tea…
Sleepy T
ime
,
he believes
,
is
the appropriate choice to put an end to his blusterous week. The larger part of him feels that this is an experiment in futility. He has not been able to sleep some months now; the chances he will get
forty winks
tonight, while his child is away with those snooty blowhards, is slim to nil. “
I
t’s worth a
shot,
” he mumbles to himself as he continues to watch the pot.

I should take out a little insurance policy
,
he thinks as he steps away from the stove. Derrick heads to his bedroom to retrieve the Xanax
tucked away in his sock d
rawer. The scrip is written to Brenda, but he doesn’t think she will be here anytime soon to collect.
Soul-stealing
Junkie
, I wish … I wish
–
I
can’t
even begin to decide when and where I should have been rid of you.

“I wish you w
ouldn’t have killed
our
son!” he shouts
into the mirror above his dresser
,
confident that his reflection was the only other being in the home to hear his outburst
.

He hits his knees
,
pulling his tie down with his right hand and unbuttoning his top button with
a flick of
the left. His sobs
are
empty and hollow. He
has
no more tears left to shed, but he want
s
, need
s
, the cleansing relief of genuine grief. His guilt and shame
ha
ve
blocked him from heal
ing; sure
,
he cried, but he
has
never
gotten past the anger.
All he has accomplished in six
months is to have been able to identify everything he has ever done wrong
,
and how that has affected the outcome of life’s situations.
He opens the drawer to his left and produces a small tea
-
colored bottle with a childproof white cap.

He rises to his feet
,
determined to feel better tonight. He owes it to his daughter; he owes it to his son.

He hears the water starting to roll in the pot as he nears the kitchen. He has the pill bottle opened and a few little blue footballs in his palm. The brown paper sack is resting on the counter, worn through in the corner from the rain, and the weight of the bottle inside. He slaps his fingers to his nose as he rockets the Xanax into his gullet. The
bourbon
opens with a series of clicks as the plastic ring is snapped loose. This is the sound of the last bottle he will ever open.

He chases the pills with a long pull from the bottle of Jack
. “
Ahhhh
” he hisses into his empty kitchen as he wipes his lips with the back of the hand that
was holding the pills
.

Weller
reaches
for the pot and pours the boiling water into
the
mug,
dousing
the
Sleepytime
tea bags already resting at the bottom. He will add the bourbon later.
Don’t want to soak up good bourbon in a cheap tea bag
,
he
thinks.
With a quick twist of the wrist
,
h
e quiets the flame on the burner
and
turns toward the den.

The television snaps on loudly at the touch of his finger.
Initially tuning
to the evening news
,
with the intention
to be out
cold
by the time the little blonde starts the weather report
, but internally debating
Maybe
I
will pace
myself
to last until
after the blonde
has announced yet another week of freezing rain
.

He thinks he hears something, but doesn’t react…
It is his cell phone vibrating against the counter in the bathroom
,
where he left it while lighting his candle. The text
,
visible on the screen
he never sees,
reads,
“
OK,
dad
,
I’m on my way
.”

Jayden
has
no more than gotten her coat off and parked her shoes at the door, a habit she picked up from her mother,
and she
is
immediately
relieved
to have a night away from her father.

She really does
n’t care to be at a party full of
bubbly
teenage girls, but any port in a storm, she
supposes
. Sam
doesn’t
greet her at the door
;
instead it
’s
Cynthia, who had been gawking out the window
moments ago
while she said farewell to her dad.
Mrs. Bingham
points
her towards
Sam’s room
, as if she were a total stranger,
to put down her backpack.

The party
is
currently on the screened
-
in patio out back,
probably because
even though it
is cold and rainy this
seems
to be the only place large enough to house that many bouncing little partygoers
. B
esides
,
there
are
gas heaters
,
like the ones you see on restaurant patios–of course there
are
;
after all
,
this
is
their little princess
’
s big day
.
I think I am going to puke
,
Jayden
thinks, making her way through the door to
hand Sam her gift.

“Happy birthday
,
Sam
,
” Jayden says in a meek voice, barely audible over the din of the others.

Sam offers little acknowledgment as she points to the end of the ta
ble where the gifts are stacked and resumes conversation with the others.

Jayden’s
iPhone
vibrates
in her back pocket
,
just once, a text:
“
Blue Jay
, I need you to come home now honey. It’s important
,
”
it reads.

You have got to be kidding me
,
D
ad
–
but
she would never say that… she has been very careful not to send him off the deep end since
the happenings
. Besides, he seemed adamant about her having a good time and letting hi
m settle in at home for a night, so her guard
snaps
up immediately.

She walks
in from
the back patio, ask
s
Samantha to excuse her (who
pays
no attention to the request
because
she
is
surrounded by chatty little tweens and
is
the belle of the ball), and
dials
her father’s phone as she walk
s
back towards Samantha’s room
,
ultimately
deciding to call from the
pristine
bathroom instead of the pristine bedroom at the end of the hall
. The room really was disgustingly “Disney Princess” and far to
o childish for a girl turning fifteen
.

She
wonders
–
Is
it
Sam who
has
become so annoying, or
have
I
just become a different person, a d
arker version of the
Blue Jay
since my
mother
was
—
Oh no!—
Ringing—
“
Pick up
,
Dad
!” she whimpers into the phone.
—
Ringing—
Only one person ever called her
Blue Jay
.
—
It goes
to voicemail
on the third ring
. The home phone
is busy, so she tries
the cell once more
,
again
to no avail
. Knowing that her mother
has
somehow gotten
ahold
of her dad’s phone, and little el
se about the situation, she sends
a response
—
hoping her
mother
won’t
know that she
has
caught the subtle hint
—
and
conjures
up a plan to
liberate herself from
the Bingham residence
. It shouldn’t be hard while the festivities
are
in full swing.

She
has
no intention of asking Cynthia or Bob to leave their daughter
’
s
fifteenth
birthday party to escort her towards more
misery and depression. She opts
instead for a grand exit
.
The
Bingham’s
are
hard at work in the kitchen
,
putting candles on a Hannah Montana
cake,
getting the Sony Handy Cam’s lens cap off
,
making sure the battery
is
amply charged
, and all the other inane
crap
hovering parents do for spoiled brats
.

They
are
such phonies. She realizes
again
that
she has
grown
sick of this family. They
are
always so involved and happy. Such a positive place to be…
it’s
like Samanth
a
poops
rainbows and butterflies.
She
knows
in her heart that it
is
an
illusion
and that they
are
no better than anyone else. What they
do
have
is
money
,
though, and that
makes
her jealous. Samantha
gets
whatever she
wants
, all the time.

Her phone vibrates
in her pocket again
,
increasing her frustration. She reluctantly look
s
to the message and read
s
,
“Jay baby you need to hurry”. She suddenly be
comes
nauseous
,
scared sick for her father.

The kitchen
is
the only path through the house to the front door. The
back yard
is
in
full view of
the
party
, so hopping the fence
is
out. She c
a
n’t afford to
lay low until they decide to blow out the candles.
What if they have them come inside to the table to have cake? What then?

J
ayden is crafty when she needs
to be. Philip taught her plenty before the end
(he wasn’t bright, but he had knowledge that
is usually
only learned through experience)
. She
walks
from the cover of the bathroom towards Sam’s room and her knapsack
where her
tiny
hands emerge from her bag
with a pack of
Pall Mall
Cigarettes
and
a little orange
Bic
lighter stuffed into the cellophane pouch. She
begins
to tear
the Miley Cyrus posters
from the walls and the papers from the desk and
creates
a substantial pile of
litter
under the foot of Sam’s bed.

“I’m sorry about your bed
,
Sammy, but yo
u are a bratty snob
,
” she mumbles as she spins the striker,
the flame. The
kindling
catches
quickly and produce
s
thick smoke.
The flames
begin
to spread and Jayden
locks
in on the beauty of their orange heat. Within a few
seconds,
the comforter
has
caught and the fire’s glow
is
warm enough to feel on her face. It
is
the last warmth her face
will
ever
feel.

She
creeps
again to the hallway and towards the
k
itchen, ducking into the last door of the hallway, the master bedroom. Just as she slip
s
into the room, Cynthia walk
s
by with the cake (Bob in tow holding the camera) on her way to the patio table.
Jayden sees Bob
’
s g
olf bag in the corner of their room and decides that taking a souvenir might not be a bad idea. She
pokes her head out of the master bedroom
cautiously holding
a Callaway three-wood behind her back
–
but
there is no one to see her.
They
didn’t see
the smoke
as they walked past and
are
now on the patio
,
starting to sing
–
of
course
,
no
one
has noticed that
she isn’t in the chorus.

Jayden makes her move and i
s out the door before the candles
are
out.
No distraction was needed, it turns out, but she chuckles, anyway.
By the time she
has
reached the end of the block, smoke
is
pouring from the open windows. Flames
ar
e licking the vinyl siding and pooling under the overhangs of the roof.

Her eyes reflect the flame, but as s
he turns
away
,
her eyes
stay alight,
starting to glimmer with madness
. She
continue
s
home to confront
her crazy
mother, certain that her wreck of a father isn’t up to the task
.