Toward the Sound of Chaos (18 page)

Jake

T
he
way Elle’s eyes fill with tears hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest. She
pushes past with the bottle of whiskey, heading for the door.

I
let her go.
There’s plenty more where that came from
.

She
turns abruptly, her face red, tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. I wanna
wipe them away, but I don’t deserve to touch her. Not like this. “You know what
really hurts, Jake, is that you can’t even see what’s right in front of you.”

“And
what’s that?”

“Me,”
she whispers. “I’m right here. I don’t pretend to understand what you went
through, and maybe the possibility of a future with me don’t matter to you, but
it matters to me. You matter to me. I love you, Jake, but I can’t watch you
destroy yourself.”

“What
did you say?” I move closer.

She
takes a step back. Her gaze searches mine and she whispers, “I said I love
you.”

“Then
you’re stupid.” I snatch the bottle from her hand.

Elle
flinches and a sob breaks free from her chest. She closes her eyes and nods.
“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“I
can’t be responsible for you and your kid. I can’t even look after my own damn
self, and if you were any kind of mother, you wouldn’t want me around Spencer.”

The
sharp sting of her palm meeting my cheek is a welcome relief. I got so used to
being hit when I talked back that I crave it. I push too far and pray for violence
to ensue because it’s the only way I know I’m still alive. It cements the fact
that I’m still here, serving out my penance, trudging through this purgatory we
call life.

Her
gaze razes me where I stand and she brings her hand up again, but I catch her
wrist and draw it to me, draw
her
to me, pressing in against her warm
body. She gives a choked cry, her eyes wide and fearful as she stares up at me.
I realize I’m holding her too tight. I’m crushing her wrist and I didn’t even
know it. She jerks away but I pull her back, which causes her to struggle more.

“I’m
sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Let
me go.”

“Angel—”

“Don’t
you dare,” she hisses, attempting to pull free of my grasp. “Let me go, Jake.”

I
do as she asks. I let her go. I watch her run out of my room and down the
stairs. The front door is open, and she disappears through it as if hell’s
hounds were chasing her.

I
follow in her wake like a ghost, there but not there, watching on helplessly,
unable to stop her as she slams the car door behind her and shoves the keys in
the ignition. The engine roars to life, and she throws it into reverse and
backs out of my driveway with tears in her eyes.

I
open the half-empty bottle of whiskey in my hand. Nuke whines and jumps up at
me, but I ignore him and take a deep pull from the bottle. I kick over several
pieces of outdoor furniture until the familiar sound of splintering wood calms
my frayed nerves some, and then I sit down in my chair and drink to being
alone, because it’s better than hurtin’ the ones you love. It’s better than
finding out that I’ve attacked her in the middle of the night during a bad
dream. It’s better than allowing her to plan a future with a man who’s always
one step away from pullin’ the trigger. It’s better than leaving her heartbroken
when I finally do grow a pair and blow my brains out all over the bedroom wall.

I
raise my bottle in salute to the vast, empty yard that’s somehow too small to
contain all my demons.

To
being alone
.

Ellie

“
S
pencer
Mason,” I say, stalking across the road to Mr. Williams house. He’s been
spending a lot more time here on Williams’s front porch these last two days
that Jake hasn’t been around. “I about called you eight times to go wash up for
dinner. Now get your little butt home.”

“I
ain’t hungry, Mamma.” He glares up at me from the pages of his book.

“Oh,
I am so sure. Just an hour ago you were trying to take a bite out of the pantry
door. Now scoot,” I say. He reluctantly hands the book back to Williams and
gets up.

“Bye,
Mr. Williams.”

Williams
nods. “I got another book on the Vietnam War inside somewhere. I’ll leave it
out for you.”

“Okay.”

“What
do you say?” I prompt.

“Thank
ya, sir.”

“You
quit sassing your mamma, you hear?”

“Yes,
sir.” As Spence trundles past me, I get a very distinctive whiff of chocolate
and peanut butter. I pull Spence up by the shirt collar, which of course he
hates, because while I may not be touching him, to him touching his shirt is
equally as bad. He struggles. “Let go.”

I
release my hold on his shirt and fold my arms over my chest. “Did you spoil
your dinner with Nutter Butters again?”

Mr.
Williams discreetly moves the jar of Nutter Butters behind him, and I fold my
arms over my chest.

“No,
ma’am.”

“Don’t
you lie to me, Spencer Mason. You know how I feel about you having sugar.”

“It
weren’t but a couple of cookies,” Williams says, “What’s the harm?”

“The
harm is that now he won’t sleep until midnight.”

He
frowns. “Was he awake until midnight last night?”

I
stare blankly at the old man. “Spencer, march your little butt over the road
and wash up.”

“But
Mamma . . .”

“Now,”
I say, in a tone that brooks no argument. He walks, though it looks more like a
death march with the way he drags his feet.

“Let
the boy live a little.”

“Mr.
Williams, I appreciate you spending time with him. I appreciate that you and he
share a bond, and to be honest at times it’s been a God-send. You’ve been more
than kind to the two of us, but I’ll thank you not to feed my child processed
foods and sugars. We keep him on a strict healthy diet because it helps keep
his SPD to a minimum.”

“Gah.”
Williams waves me off. “SPD, ADHD, OCD, all these letters. When I was a kid,
none of this stuff existed. If your brain worked differently than someone
else’s, you just got on with it. You’re gonna riddle his brain with more holes
than a slice of Swiss cheese with all those shrinks you take him to.”

“Spencer
doesn’t see a shrink, Mr. Williams. It takes a team of different doctors and
specialists to look after him.”

He
makes a tsking sound. “What do they know about being inside his head?”

“A
lot more than we do,” I snap and exhale a deep breath, because he doesn’t
deserve my anger. “You know they could probably help out with your
agoraphobia.”

“Agora-what?”

“It’s
a fear of being in open spaces. For some, it’s a fear of leaving their house,”
I say pointedly.

“I
left the house a few nights ago.”

I
shake my head impatiently. I don’t have time for one of his tall tales right
now. “I’m not trying to pressure you, Mr. Williams, I’m just saying that maybe
it would help sometime to go and talk to someone. Or have them come here.”

“I
do talk to someone,” he says gruffly. “I talk to you and Spencer.”

“Yes,
but there are other measures you can take. Medications to make you feel
better.”

“I
don’t need none of that garbage.” He picks up his walking stick and points the
end of it at me. “I told you I left my house just a few nights ago.”

I
refrain from rolling my eyes because I know that ain’t true. Williams hasn’t
left his front porch for years, with the exception of the morning after Jimmy
wrecked my house. He has his morning paper, groceries and meals delivered. Even
then I bring him dinner most nights, just in case he forgets to eat.

“I
don’t have time to play this game, Mr. Williams. Just please stop feedin’ my
boy Nutter Butters. Don’t make me ban him from coming over here.”

I
turn on my heel and prepare to head back across the road when he says, “Five
nights back, I left my stoop and took a walk downtown. ’Bout midnight, I’d be
reckonin’. It was peaceful. Satisfyin’. Felt like the right thing to do.”

“I’m
glad for you, Mr. Williams.” I turn and face him. I’m caught off guard by the
way he’s looking at me so expectantly. Uneasily, I say, “Now, if you’ll excuse
me, I have to go and coax my child down from the ceiling what with all the
sugar he just consumed.”

I
shake my head and walk across the road and into the house. Just as I thought
he’d be, Spence is runnin’ amok, jumpin’ all over the furniture from one piece
to another as he sings the Marine Hymn at the top of his lungs.

God
damn Nutter Butters.

I’m
in for a long night.

Ellie

I
t’s
been a week since I’ve seen Jake. The bruises on my wrist where he grabbed me
had faded within a few days, but the ones on my heart? Well, they are still
very much in place. I know he did what he did in order to push me away. I may
be blonde, but I’m not stupid. He’d frightened me though, but worse than that,
he’d called me an unfit mother, and a part of me has always believed that
that’s true.

I
know I do everything I can for my son. I love him more than I love anyone else
on God’s green earth, and certainly more than myself, but a part of me always
wonders why I can’t make him happy the way Jake does, the way Nuke and even Mr.
Williams do. Why I can’t just reach out and touch him like other mothers can
with their children. He never tells me he loves me; I know he does, but I’d be
lying to myself if I said I didn’t wanna hear it.

None
of these things make me a bad mother, but despite the fact that I love him
unconditionally, sometimes I lie awake at night wishing things were different.
I wish that we had it easier. I wish that we didn’t have to scrape through from
one paycheck to another, that there wasn’t a meltdown every time there was the
smallest change to his routine. And the horrible truth that I’ll never admit to
anyone: sometimes I wish my child wasn’t born autistic.

That’s
the thing about wishes, though—they’re just that. Hopes thrown out to the
universe, swept away on a breeze and left up to fate. More often than not,
wishes don’t come true, and my little boy wouldn’t be mine if he’d been made
any other way. All the riches in the world couldn’t replace those rare and
imperfect smiles from my son.

I
pull into the drive and get Spence out of the car. He’s straight into the
living room, his head stuck in the book Mr. Williams gave him on Vietnam last
week. I decide lettin’ him be is easier than having to coax him into helping me
bring the groceries in, so I wander outside and open the trunk. When I turn
around, I notice Williams isn’t on his front porch. Yesterday he’d been a right
pain in my butt, callin’ me over between clients to sort through boxes and
boxes of junk and telling me if I didn’t take it, that he’d be giving it to
goodwill. I’d been out-of-my-mind busy with a trial updo for Sherry Pickering’s
wedding in a few months, and I’d had next to no patience for sortin’ through
Williams’s treasure trove of madness.

I
shrug off the niggling feeling I have around his absence. He may be a little
under the weather, or taking a nap. I feel bad for being short with him, so I
decide I’ll bring him some supper and a slice of that Lane cake that I made
over the weekend.

I
grab the mail from the letterbox without looking at it and head inside with my
groceries to make dinner. Once in the kitchen, I put the food away and throw
the mail on the table; those past-due notices can wait until I’ve opened a
bottle of wine because I’ll likely feel the need for a drink once I see how
much money I owe.

When
dinner is almost ready, I call Spence in to set the table. He pokes at the
letters and fishes out a thick, cream envelope from the stack. “Why did Mr.
Williams send us a letter?”

“What?”
I ask, staring at the item in question.

Spencer
picks it up and turns it over in his hand. “It’s Mr. Williams’s writing.”

“Show
me that.” I take my gravy from off the heat and place it on a cooling rack.

“It’s
right here; that’s his handwriting. And he has one of those wax seals with his
initials, look. He stamped it on the back.”

I
wipe my hands on my apron and take the envelope from Spence. I break the seal
and pull out the letter, my heart pounding in my chest, afraid it might be an
eviction notice because he’s planning on selling my house. My hands begin to
shake the further I read, and I rest my hip against the kitchen counter and
cover my mouth with my free hand.

Ms.
Mason,

I
took care of it so you wouldn’t have to.

So
Jake Tucker wouldn’t have to
.

And
now I’m taking care of the rest
.

Look
after that boy.

Marcus
Williams

“Oh
my God.” The letter falls from my hands.

“What’s
wrong, Mamma?”

“Stay
here, baby.” I turn the oven off and then, apron on and barefoot, I flee
through the front door.

When
I hit the road, I’m almost taken out by the Fairhope Police squad car. Brakes
squeal; the car bounces to a stop just inches from my legs, and wide-eyed, I
stare through the windshield at Sergeant Murphy. I slam my hand down on the
hood and continue on up the front porch steps to Mr. Williams’s house.

“Ellie,”
Murphy calls, but I ignore him and burst into Williams’s house as the shot goes
off and he slumps forward in his armchair.

“No!”
I scream. “No, no no!”

My
ears ring. Brain matter splatters the chair and wall, and plaster dust falls
from the ceiling. Blood pours from the hole in his head onto the worn wooden
floor.

I
press my hand tightly to my mouth in order to cover the keening cries coming
from my throat and lungs. A beat later, I’m jostled out of the way.

“Get
her outta here,” Sergeant Murphy orders, and Officer Squires ushers me out of
the house as tears pour down my face in a torrent. I can’t breathe—all I can
see is him there one minute, and a hole through his head the next.

Georgina
helps me navigate the stairs, which is a blessing because I’m pretty sure my
trembling legs would have given out by now if she hadn’t been there to lean on.
“Let’s get you back home, okay?”

“Mamma.”
Spencer’s voice pulls me from my despair. “Was that Mr. Williams’s rifle goin’
off?”

I
stare at my son and swipe the tears from my face. My hand comes away red. I
make a small animalistic cry in the back of my throat. “Why are you bleeding,
Mamma?”

I
can’t help it. I’ve had eight years of being a steel pillar when it comes to
being strong for my son, but now I just collapse onto the walk. Georgina goes
down with me, squeezing my shoulders for comfort. I gasp like a fish outta
water. I can’t breathe. I sit there panting, clinging onto a woman I hardly
know as if holding onto someone could erase everything I just saw.

The
blood. So much blood, and the scent of hot metal, gunpowder, and raw meat
lingers inside my nose, forcing bile to rise in my throat.

“Mamma,”
Spencer screams, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s seeing me on my knees,
my shirt and face dusted with blood, or if it’s because he just worked out what
happened, but like a shot he takes off down the street.

I
shrug out of Georgina’s embrace and scramble to my feet. Sirens slice the air.
I panic because I know his triggers—I know that loud noises send him into
meltdown.

“Spencer!”
I shout. My legs feel as if they’ve been weighed down with lead. I trip on the
uneven footpath and go sprawling, but I hardly feel the sting before I’m up
again and running after my son. Farther down the street, Spencer stands
paralyzed as the ambulance roars closer, lights flashing, siren wailing. He runs
onto the road, and I can only watch on in horror as I see him stop dead in his
tracks while the ambulance hurtles towards him. He covers his ears and closes
his eyes.

Everything
moves at warp speed and slow motion all at once. The ambulance skids to a stop,
and Spencer’s little body goes flying through the air and lands on the
pavement. My heart stops. I dive toward my son, my legs skating across the road
as if I were sliding into home base before the ball.

“Spence!
Spence!” I scream, gently tapping his face. His head hit the pavement pretty
hard, but I can’t see no blood. I pat him down, frantically inventorying his
limbs and body. His leg lies at the oddest angle, and I cry out when I see the
blood gushing from it and the stark white bone protruding from the leg of his
pants. My hand covers my mouth and I gasp. Then I scream for help.