A Storied Man

(click here to go back to Part Nine)

Ronnie’s nose hurt and his head throbbed. He had been punched in the nose once, but it didn’t compare to this. Something in there was broken, or torn. He lifted his head off his mom’s shoulder and leaned his head back.

“No, son, don’t do that. You’ll get sick on the blood running down your throat, and it won’t stop the bleeding any faster. Just sit with your head straight up and down.”

One first aid class, and she’s an expert.

A brunette woman with dark brown skin walked up holding a handful of white gauze. Her pink scrubs featured Scooby Doo characters. “I’ll trade you,” she said. “Pull those paper towels away nice and easy.”

Ronnie gently pulled away the dark red, pulpy mass. A few dried spots hung on as he tugged a little harder.

The nurse quickly applied the gauze, then lifted Ronnie’s hand up to replace hers. “Hold that there, just like before. I think you’ll like that better.”

She led him and his mom to an X-ray room, where a technician had him lie very still on an oblong metal table. The hulking mass above him clicked and whirred as it traveled the length of his body. If that thing fell, I’d be dead for sure.

“What about a CT scan?” Susan asked. “I always hear ‘ER’ mention a CT scan.”

“We’ll do that, too, if the doctors decide it’s needed,” said the technician.

The nurse then took Ronnie to an ER room, where a man lying on one of the beds let out muffled groans.

The nurse shot him a disapproving look. “Shots, what are you doing here?” she said.

“I’m sick. Very sick,” he replied.

“No, you’re not.” Then, to Ronnie and Susan. “I’m sorry. We try to keep him out, but it’s hard for some of our newer folks to tell him from the legitimate patients.”

“I’ve run out of patience,” Shots said. “I’m fed up with the lot of you.”

“Either get up or I’m calling Security,” the nurse said.

With a growl, Shots stood and strolled easily from the room. “Just tryin’ to stay warm.”

“Sit right here, young man. The doctor should be with you in a few minutes.”

Ronnie complied. Anything would feel better than walking. He never realized how bumpy walking was. “Okay,” he said. The vibration in his voice sent a fresh round of stabbing pain through his nose and head.

Who the hell is Outhouse, anyway, and what did he mean, ‘I seen other men go down worse than this’? Although he had difficulty concentrating on anything other than the pain, he had heard too much to hold it in.

“Bob?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Do you doe anythig aboud Oudhouse?”

“Not really. Just that he works at the bottling plant.”

“He said he… ow.”

“Does it hurt too much to talk?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on a minute.” She got up and walked out of the room.

Ronnie sat there watching through the glass as an orderly in the next room thumped a paper football across a table. An orderly sitting opposite him slumped when the tightly folded triangle stopped, one of its corners sticking past the table’s edge. Touchdown, Ronnie thought.

Susan came back carrying a pen and a pad of paper. “Here, write it down.” She held the pad as Ronnie wrote with one hand, held a bloody mass of gauze against his nose with his other.

——-

After the move, Trena, her mom, and her mom’s asshole husband Larry settled into their new apartment. Larry started work a week later at a local Coca-Cola bottling plant, and earned a respectable, honest wage. Trena’s mother didn’t have to work, but volunteered at a local hospital. She had worked as a nurse since Trena started first grade, and after marrying Larry and his income, she found volunteering a less stressful way to stay in healthcare.

“Plus, now, I can take summers off and we can go on trips,” her mom said.

Trena wasn’t so sure that would work out now that Larry had a factory job.

Before the move, and before she met Larry, Trena’s mother worked hard to become an RN and made good money doing it. Her first husband — the only man Trena ever would call “dad,” — had been killed in a car accident, so it was just her and her mom, taking on the world.

Her mom met Larry after he was shot by a mob hitman. He explained to her that he was “one of the good guys.” They grew to like each other as he healed, and eventually fell in love and were married. Trena and her mom moved into Larry’s big house.

In the house, Larry had a private office where Trena was not allowed to go. The room’s contents and the things that went on inside were a secret. He outfitted the door with a padlock, and no matter how hard she tried, she never found the key. Even the clothes he wore suggested he was hiding something; Larry never roamed around the house in anything less than slacks and a long-sleeve Oxford shirt.

Every time his friends came over, they looked at Trena like she was a piece of meat. She got angry with Larry because it was wrong for men to look at 12-year-old girls like that, but he never seemed to mind their furtive glances at her. Both Larry and her mother told her she was imagining things.

Only once had he said anything to his friends. “Hey, Louie, for chrissakes, the kid’s only 12. Give her a couple more years, will ya? Now deal the damn cards.”

She chided herself because she liked it when the more handsome men leered at her. Still, she never risked a flirtatious look at any of them. It was just gross to think of that.

Although she hated her home life, school was great. She had lots of friends, some of them cute boys, and a few teachers had taken a special interest in her math skills. One of them invited her to join the Math Club.

Then one day, Larry came home and told them they would have to move.

“I’m in something called the ‘Witness Protection Program.’ They’re giving us new names and a new life. Doesn’t that sound exciting?” He looked at Trena as he said it.

“New names? What about my friends?”

“Just our last names, honey. If we don’t move, we could all be in danger,” said her mom, as if she had known about it for quite some time.

Trena looked at her, incredulous. Why doesn’t asshole move, and we can stay where we are?

Tears welled up in Trena’s eyes. “I wish you two had never met!” she screamed, then ran to her room and slammed the door.

For a while in the new place, all doors were open unless somebody was in the bathroom. Larry never rushed away from dinner to take a call in a locked office, and he often walked through the apartment wearing only his t-shirt and boxers. None of his perverted friends came around anymore.

One day, about three months after they started their new life, Trena noticed that it had been a while since she had seen Larry in his underwear. Most girls would be happy not to see their stepdad in any state of undress. It was a reminder, though, of the way things were before they moved.

For a parent-teacher conference one Thursday, Trena got out of school early and headed straight home. She was anxious to download a new song a friend had shared on her iPod. The bus ride seemed to take forever, catching every red light.

It was exciting to have a friend, after leaving behind all those she had known. There had been no phone calls, no letters. She hadn’t been allowed to tell anybody she was moving. Now, she was doing well as the new kid in school, and meeting a lot of kids she wanted to know.

When she got home, she saw Larry’s car in the parking lot. He should be at work. She walked quietly to the front door, eased her key into the lock, then slowly turned the knob.

A few steps inside, she noticed Larry in the kitchen, his back to her. He was on the phone, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. A black strap ran over his left shoulder to a point a few inches below his armpit. Another ran across his back to the same spot. When he turned slightly, she saw it was a gun.

She put her hand to her mouth and barely stifled a gasp.

“Yeah, Louie. I been fine. You guys miss me?” A pause to light the cigarette. “Get outta here. Yeah, I blocked caller ID because I don’t want my new number showin’ up in your phone.” Like a fire-tipped conductor’s baton, the cigarette wagged rhythmically as he spoke.

“Look, Louie, I can’t stand bein’ a workin’ stiff. I gotta get in on a deal. Anything, Louie. Just get me back in.”

It confirmed what Trena had suspected all along. Larry was not “one of the good guys.” Mom’s got to know this.

There he was, putting them all back in jeopardy. After her mother had agreed to give up everything she had worked so hard for — the friendships, the co-workers — he was messing it up. Trena then wondered if her mom had lied to her when she first met Larry. How could she not have known? She didn’t know how to bring up the mysterious phone call and the gun.

A few days later, she heard pebbles bouncing off her second-floor window, and when she looked down, she saw Ronnie. Mad at Larry and her mom, she decided to go with Ronnie wherever he led her.

So now, here I am, and I can’t even tell Mom about Larry.

She lay still, listening to the blips and bleeps of the various monitors attached to her body, and longed for some music to drown it all out. She couldn’t even ask someone to turn on the radio.

——-

Susan couldn’t believe her eyes.

Despite having a hard time making out some of the words, she was able to decipher Ronnie’s awful handwriting. It sounded like Outhouse was some kind of gangster.

She tried to hold back, but the words just came out. “Not only were you messing around with a little girl, but she’s a gangster’s daughter? Perfect.”

“Gibbee a break. Ow.”

“Sorry. What about the guy who helped you?”

Ronnie scribbled a few more lines onto the page.

Susan’s mouth dropped open. Tall. Long gray hair in a ponytail. Big gut. “It couldn’t be…” her voice trailed off.

“You doe hib?”

“I might have met him here in the ER right after you left for the bathroom.”

“Suddavabitch.”

(continue to Part Eleven)

(Click here to go back to Part Eight)

Ronnie’s nose and mouth were completely submerged by the time he managed to get a hand on the faucet. He shut off the water and pushed on the basin as hard as he could, but the man holding him was too heavy and strong. He frantically slapped both arms behind him, trying to ward off the attack.

It did no good. He still couldn’t breathe, and his glancing blows were met with curses.

“You no-good little motherfucker. Puttin’ your dick where it don’t belong.”

Outhouse? Oh shit. He thinks I had sex with Trena.

The pressure on his face increased. He lifted one foot and kicked wildly behind him, making contact but changing nothing. He held back a scream to save what was left in his lungs.

Somewhere in the room an automatic air freshener spewed its scented payload.

Ronnie tried the other foot, with the same result. I’m gonna drown. He’s drowning me. I’m gonna die in the ER bathroom.

“Stop kicking me, ya little fuck. Take this shit like a man. You should thank me. I seen other men go down worse than this.”

Just let me up and give me a chance to thank you.

The door opened.

“Hey! What’s going on here!” a man’s voice echoed.

“None of ya business. Now get lost,” Outhouse said.

“Let the kid go,” said the stranger.

“Get the fuck outta here.”

Ronnie heard quick footsteps and then a sound that reminded him of a muffled bass drum. Outhouse grunted and shifted his weight, but Ronnie still couldn’t move.

“This ain’t your business, mister,” Outhouse said.

More sounds, like a blunt object hitting a cushion, matched by grunts from Outhouse.

Is he kicking him?

Ronnie pushed off the sink again and lifted his face far enough to catch a breath before Outhouse pushed him back down.

“See? I’m too much for the both of ya. Now leave before ya really piss me off.”

One more muffled thump and Outhouse turned his attention to the stranger. Ronnie stood and staggered a few steps before slamming into a bathroom stall. As he hit the floor, he looked up to see what was happening.

A man he had never seen before, tall with gray hair pulled into a ponytail, was beating up Larry Outhouse. With hardly any effort, the stranger administered a series of kicks and punches that quickly left the fat thug lying on the floor, wheezing.

His breathing sounded unnatural. The stranger looked at Outhouse, obviously confused.

“He’s god azba,” Ronnie said. Who’s drowning now, you piece of shit? “His idhaler’s id his pockid.” He sounded stuffed up.

The stranger looked at Ronnie. “Are you going to get it, or am I?”

“You mead we hab da helb hib?”

“I won’t be responsible for his death.”

“He albost killed be!” Ronnie shouted.

“Be that as it may, he should be punished by someone other than us.”

“Well, I’b dod godda do id.”

“I guess by process of elimination that leaves me,” the stranger said.

The stranger, lanky but for his big gut, walked over and squatted down next to Outhouse, who managed a few words between labored breaths. “Fuck –” Wheeze. “Stick. I’ll kill–” Wheeze. “You.”

“I’m quaking.” Then, to Ronnie. “Okay. Let’s do this. I’ll hold him while you give him the inhaler, then you go for help.” The stranger rolled Outhouse onto his side, then pulled one of his arms behind him and used his free hand to pinch a spot between his neck and his shoulder.

“I dode thig so,” Ronnie said.

“He’s not going to move. Trust me.”

“Fuck –” Wheeze. “Off.”

Ronnie gave it a few more seconds, then slowly dragged himself across the tile, holding his bloody, battered nose with one hand as he reached into Outhouse’s pocket. Despite his hostility, Outhouse accepted the life-saving device and breathed deeply.

“I’m gonna make sure ya both get the skull-fucking of your lives.”

The stranger rolled his eyes, then looked at Ronnie. “You go on. Grab some paper towels for your nose. You’ll look like somebody who’s come to the emergency room, so nobody should react. Calmly walk to a security guard and ask him to call the police and then come here. Can you do that?”

“I thig so.”

——-

Susan was trying to ignore the toddler next to her when she heard a gasp from the direction of the restrooms. She turned to look but couldn’t see anything above the others’ heads. Near a man with a cast on his arm stood a security guard, eyes wide open. She stood to get a better look.

A boy who looked just like Ronnie strode quickly toward the guard, holding a bloodied wad of paper towels over his nose and mouth.

Oh my God. It is Ronnie.

She practically flew across the room, reaching the guard as Ronnie did. “Honey, what happened? Who did this to you?”

“Dot dow, bob,” Ronnie said.

She didn’t understand a word. “What?”

Ronnie turned to the security guard. “Call dide wad wad.”

“Excuse me?” the guard asked.

“Dide wad wad.” Against the wall, he pantomimed pushing 9-1-1 on a phone’s keypad.

“Okay, son, I get your meaning now. First, tell me what’s happening.”

“A guy attacked be. He’s id da baffroob.”

“I’m sorry, son. I’m not sure I caught all that. A guy attacked you in a bathrobe?”

Ronnie pointed. “Da baffroob! Da baffroob!”

The guard turned to a receptionist. “Get Reynolds to send the nearest squad car. And, please expedite this boy’s care.”

“He’s not a patient,” the receptionist said.

“Well, you probably ought to get him started on some forms,” the guard said.

“I’m his mother. I’ll do it.” Susan said.

My baby. What the hell have you got yourself into?

“You go with your mom, son. I’ll go assess the situation.”

As the guard started off for the restrooms, Susan and Ronnie found the nearest chairs. Susan tried to get more information out of Ronnie, but he just kept pointing to his face and waving her off.

“Cad tawg,” he said.

“Can’t talk?” Susan asked. “Just tell me. Do you know who did this?”

He nodded. “Treeda’s dad.”

“Outhouse! That bastard. I’ll kill him.” She controlled her urge to get up and follow the security guard.

Instead, for the second time that night, she put her arm around her son and let him cry on her shoulder. Different from the first time, however, he wept quietly.

Why does he have to face the real world? Why can’t I just sweep him away to a mountain cabin and live in peace?

——-

“Oh, my dear girl. I wish you could tell us what happened. We only know that you were with the Batson boy.”

Ronnie didn’t tell them? What did he tell them?

“Your father — ”

He’s not my father.

“is just beside himself. He’s so upset that you got hurt. He would be here right now, but I think he needed a private moment.”

He’s real good at ‘private moments,’ Mom.

She wanted to tell her mom to get her a pen and some paper, but she couldn’t even move her hand to make the sign. She could move her eyes, twitch her nose. Did that mean she could talk once they pulled out that miserable breathing tube? God, I hope so.

She lay there, cold but unable to tell anybody. Hurting but unable to ask for relief. According to the clock on the wall, her pain had been back for about 10 minutes, at a level several notches below what she felt right after her fall. It was enough to keep her awake, but not enough to make her pass out.

A nurse walked into the room. “Hello, Trena. Nice to see those brown eyes. Excuse me, Mrs. Outhouse, but it seems you’re needed in the ER waiting room.”

Needed? Who needs her? Him? Please, Mom, don’t leave me here alone. I love you, Mom. Please stay here.

Despite looking straight into Trena’s eyes, her mother didn’t seem to get the message.

As she watched her mother follow the nurse out of the room, she thought back to the first time her life was turned upside-down.

They had just joined the program, thanks to the asshole her mother married. They left all their friends to move to a new town, where asshole promised they would start fresh. “Things are gonna be different,” he told them.

And they were, at first.

(continue to Part 10)

(Click here to go back and read Part Seven)

“I gotta go to the head,” Ronnie said. It was one of the nautical terms he had picked up from his dad’s sailing hobby.

“You okay?” Susan asked.

“Yeah, but I really need to go. I’ve needed to since before… well, since earlier tonight.”

He plodded off toward the restroom.

Maybe coming here wasn’t such a good idea, Susan thought.

She wanted to know how far she needed to go to protect Ronnie. In the car on the way to the hospital, she had convinced herself she did not believe her boy could be one of those sicko men who preyed on girls. He and Trena weren’t really that far apart in age, and he had showed restraint.

She couldn’t count on the majority’s view to fit her own. Will she say he tried to push her? Will she tell what he did before that? Everything hinged on Trena.

A stranger interrupted her thoughts.

“Excuse me. You gotta light? We rushed down here and I didn’t get my lighter.”

The man was about 6′4″ with very thick, long, gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. Broad-shouldered and thin except for his pot belly, he wore a hoop earring in his left ear and each elbow seemed to have half of a large marble just under the surface of the skin.

“No, sorry, I quit smoking and I don’t keep anything on me,” Susan said.

He looked her up and down. “No, you don’t keep much on you at all, do you?”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Are you hitting on me in the ER?”

His head snapped back a bit. “No, I just needed a light.”

“I have something going on here, okay?”

“Yeah, baby, you sure do.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. I’m really bad at this,” he said, his voice shaky now.

“No kidding. You should go to a bar or something.”

“No, I’m, uh, my questions and responses are part of my research on being a single mom in today’s world. Dating is one of the topics I’m covering. I couldn’t help noticing you’re here with a teenage boy, and you’re not wearing a wedding ring.”

“None of that’s any of your business. Who are you?”

“Sorry, I’m Glenn Akers. I’m a student — non-traditional student, I guess you’d say. I’m working on my master’s degree in sociology.”

It was strange to see such a large man, obviously her senior, nervously talking his way out of an awkward situation. She still wasn’t sure she believed his story.

“That’s nice. I’m here for my son.”

“Oh, that’s good. May I use that?”

“What?”

“I’m also including the single mother’s struggle to pay for rising healthcare costs. Can you expand on why you and your son are here?”

“No, but I’d do anything for him, and allowing a guy to pick me up, or whatever the hell you’re doing, when my son needs me, is not on my list. You can use that. Now please leave us alone.”

Freak.

——-

Trena saw her mom standing to her left holding her hand. Her mom’s husband was opposite her, holding her right hand.

Let go of me, you asshole.

“She’s opening her eyes,” her mom said.

Mom, tell him to let go of my hand, please.

It was no use. Her mom couldn’t read her mind, and she still had no way of communicating. She had to just lie there, the feeling of –

Oh my God! I can’t feel them holding my hands. What’s wrong with me?

A man in a white coat walked up and stood at Trena’s feet. Her mom and stepdad stared at him, their eyes longing for answers. Neither of them spoke as he looked right past them and into Trena’s eyes.

“You appear to be experiencing spinal shock. Sometimes when the spine is injured, perfectly healthy cells in the spine simply stop functioning. Usually this isn’t a permanent condition, but it can last several weeks.”

“Oh, thank God,” her mom said.

Weeks? Injury? What about the injury?

“You said there was an injury, though, right?” her stepdad said.

The jerk manages to help me for once.

He gave them a glance while talking, but still focused mainly on Trena. “We didn’t see any signs of a break or a rupture. With proper care and bedrest, a girl your age should enjoy a full recovery.”

Her mom started crying and Trena thought she felt a squeezing sensation in her left hand.

“Oh, my baby’s going to be okay,” she said.

Please, mom, don’t cry. I never wanted to be the one to make you cry. She looked at her stepdad.

“This will take a lot of patience from you two, and a lot of work from you, young lady.” He winked.

Thank you, doctor. Can I take you and the ambulance guy home with me?

“Honey, I gotta go to the can,” her stepdad said.

“Okay. I’ll stay here with my sweet baby girl.”

——-

Ronnie leaned over to turn on the faucet and splash cold water on his face.

A hand grabbed the back of his head and rammed his face into the porcelain. His nose made a horrible crunch sound. He smelled and tasted blood.

The faucet squeaked and brought the water rushing out, quickly covering his nose. A hand smashed onto his back, trapping him under a great weight. As the water touched his lips, he spread them wide, trying to suck air in from the corners.

(continue to Part Nine)

(click here to go back to Part Six)

Strange voices to her left and right. Blinding light everywhere. A sensation of pressure on her chest.

“I need that CT scan now!” boomed a woman’s voice above all others. “And where the hell is neuro?”

That’s what they say when they’re looking at the brain. Is there something wrong with my brain?

“Meyerson, what’s next?” asked another woman, or a man with a high voice. She couldn’t tell.

Spine. Brain. Signs of damage. Those were the only things she plucked from the flood of technical jargon. Most of the words didn’t stick long enough to replay them in her head. Combined with her fear, the unfamiliarity tested the limits of her conscious recall.

Still vivid in her mind, however, was her first visit to the ER.

Just a few months after she had started her period, Trena was doubled over with abdominal cramps. Her mom rushed her to the hospital, where they waited in chairs for two hours. By the time they got her to a bed, the worst of the pain had subsided. With a brief exam, only the second one she’d had “down there,” doctors determined that an ovarian cyst had ruptured.

“You will have to visit the gynecologist more often than most girls, at least until these cysts stop,” a male doctor said. That part was embarrassing. She had told her mom she never wanted a man doctor for her female issues.

And he wasn’t handsome like the doctors on TV.

“What if they don’t?” her mother asked.

“Well, ma’am, sometimes we use the pill to help control cysts.”

“The pill? She’s only 12.”

“Gynecologically, she’s a woman, and it is a known effective treatment.”

Trena just sat there, her head down, letting her mom do all the talking. My God. The pill? Dad’s going to freak.

This time, her mom wasn’t in the room, and the answer wouldn’t be as simple as popping a pill. She wanted to ask where her parents were, but she couldn’t talk. Something down her throat guaranteed that wouldn’t happen. With no way to find out about her condition, she directed her attention at the people above her.

Her eyes finally adjusted enough to make out more than just silhouettes. One of the men had a big nose, and the two women were pretty. She couldn’t quite make out their hair color.

A voice she recognized broke her concentration.

“How is she?”

It was the man from the back of the ambulance.

——-

“Why ah you heeyo?” asked a little boy sitting next to Ronnie.

“My, uh, friend, got hurt,” Ronnie said.

“Is she hut weeyo bad?”

“She’s pretty messed up.”

“Messed up?”

“She’s hurt real bad.”

“Oh. I sahwee. My cousin got somethin’ in his eye.”

Hoping for someone to rescue him, Ronnie looked at the lady sitting next to the boy. Her head was buried in a book called He Only Rides at Night.

“What is your fwend’s name?”

“Trena.”

“Do you yike Twena?”

Ronnie took a deep breath and then parted his lips just enough to sigh it out, puffing his cheeks.

“Yeah, I like her. That’s why I’m here.”

“My mommy is heeyo.” He pointed to the woman reading the book. “Is your mommy heeyo?”

Susan walked up and sat next to Ronnie. “They still don’t know anything,” she said.

“Shit.”

“Shit?” the little boy said.

The woman looked up from her book. “Justin! Don’t say that!”

Thanks for all your help, lady.

Although he’d been there once before as a young boy, Ronnie was surprised at how calm the ER was. He expected to see doctors straddling unconscious gurney-ridden victims of some unspeakable accident or crime, administering rib-shattering chest compressions. Anybody wearing a white doctor’s coat would bark orders at anybody wearing nurses’ scrubs.

Instead, nobody was kicking, screaming, or bleeding, and they didn’t seem to be in a hurry. He wondered what Trena’s case was like. He hoped they were rushing around at least a little bit.

“Trena must have been the most exciting thing to happen to this place all night,” Susan said.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Ronnie said. “I need to get up and walk around some.”

He always had been restless. Any time his brother visited, Susan loaded them up with movie rentals. Ronnie usually made it through only half of the first movie before he got bored and wandered off to download some mp3’s or catch up on his friends’ MySpace blogs.

He walked over to the vending machine, where a boy wearing a gauze patch over his left eye contemplated his selection. “Go with the Zagnut,” Ronnie said.

“What’s a Zagnut?”

“My uncle Garvin gave me one when I was your age. Damn good candy bar. Oh, sorry.”

“That’s okay. My dad damns things all the time.”

“So, how’d you get something in your eye?”

“How did you know?” The boy put three coins in the machine.

“Little birdie told me. I used to get stuff in mine a lot when I was a kid. Came to the hospital for it once.”

The boy punched in “E3″ for the Zagnut. “What are they gonna do?” he asked.

“Let me get that for you.” Ronnie leaned over and reached into the slot to grab the candy bar. “Well, for me, they laid me down on a flat metal table and then put this long paper sheet over me, with a hole where my eye was. Then they squirted a bunch of stuff in my eye so it wouldn’t hurt. Here.”

Before thinking, he tossed the Zagnut to the boy with one good eye.

He deftly caught it and ripped open the package. “Did it? Hurt, I mean?”

“Not while they were working on it. The doctor dug around in there until he found whatever it was, kind of over on the side of my eyeball. It was sore after that.”

“I’m scared.”

“Don’t be. You’ll be fine.”

“Do you get stuff in your eyes now?”

“Not much.”

Susan walked up. “The doctors are talking to Trena’s parents.”

“Can we listen?”

“Better let them finish first.”

“How do they look?”

“Her mom’s crying.”

(Continue to Part Eight)

(go back to Part Five here)

Ronnie walked beside his mom, across the parking lot toward their apartment. When he moved there with her in May of that year, the goody-two-shoes son coming to settle in with his mommy, he never dreamed that by October he’d be tangled up in such a mess. In a little over a month, he would turn 16.

If I already had my license, I could go out and date girls closer to my age, instead of these girls Matt brings around.

This time, though, it had nothing to do with Matt and his concubines. He knew it was no excuse for what he’d done. Hell, an eighth-grader would have been an improvement. In his laziness and his inability to control his urges, he had almost taken advantage of a young girl.

And, for all anybody else knew, shoved her down a flight of stairs.

His mom’s arm was around him. Under normal circumstances, he never would have allowed that in public. Things definitely were not normal, and it didn’t look like they would be soon.

“Trena’s dad must hate me,” he said.

“I don’t think so, honey. He’s pretty pissed off. And so am I. But I don’t think he hates you.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to screw things up for you. I want to be there so we can see how she’s doing. I kind of want him to see me at least checking up on her, you know?”

“Did you and her dad know each other before tonight?”

“Not really. Sometimes when me and Matt were out riding our bikes, I’d see him coming home from work. I said ‘hi’ to him. That’s about it.”

Susan opened their patio gate and let Ronnie go first. “Did he know you were hanging around Trena?”

“Well, I wasn’t, really. I mean, I saw her at the pool sometimes, and sometimes me and Matt hang out with this other kid who’s in her grade.”

“Matt and I. You mean Craig?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s a good kid.”

“That’s what people used to say about me.”

——-

Susan wanted a cigarette more than anything at that moment. The Nicorette gum calmed her craving for nicotine, but she had found no substitute for the physical act of smoking. Kojak had succeeded with lollipops, but she wanted to keep all her teeth.

She really thought she’d lucked out when Ronnie decided to come live with her instead of staying behind with his older brother and his father. Compared to her firstborn, little Ronnie would be much easier to manage, and usually was more willing to help her with household chores.

My kingdom for a damn cigarette.

She sat in her recliner as Ronnie flopped on the couch. He lay there sighing, occasionally slapping the couch cushions in frustration. Clearly the boy was tormented.

“I think you should make an appearance, but let’s give her family some time to cool off a little. You go rushing in there now, and you’ll make things worse.”

He sat up and turned to her. “So, what do we tell them? Everything?”

“Let’s wait and see what Trena thinks.”

“Even if she can talk, how am I going to talk to her alone?”

“Don’t worry about that right now. Let’s just go over everything that happened. That’s the only way I can help you.”

The truth was, she would do anything to keep her son safe, to the point of breaking the law. She once told him that if the draft were in use when he turned 18, she’d put him on a plane to Canada rather than see him go to war. The same went for his older brother, who would be forced to register in March.

She rocked slowly in the recliner, the old chair creaking and squeaking as her baby boy unfolded the night’s events. Although she sometimes joked with him about sex, it made her uncomfortable to hear him say, in less direct terms, that he had been horny. That he had almost acted on it with such a young girl worried her. Is he getting out of control? Is he going to be one of those sex offenders we always hear about?

Her dog, Snapper, a Jack Russell Terrier, jumped up and settled between her left thigh and the arm of the chair. He would never do anything like that. If he did, then nobody would care much, because he’s just a dog. His kind were almost expected to commit a disgusting, debased act here and there.

“So, see, I stopped,” Ronnie said. “But then she fell.”

“Thank God.”

“What?”

“I mean, that you stopped.”

She got up and walked to the rolltop desk in the corner of the dining nook. The stash of liquor that she got in the divorce lurked in the bottom cabinet, waiting for just such an occasion. She drank only a few times a year, usually on holidays, but without cigarettes, she needed a familiar vice to settle her nerves.

Snapper followed her into the kitchen. His mooching ways were known throughout he Batson family, and his food radar never missed a person’s trip to the kitchen.

As the ice cracked under the stress of warm rum and Coke, she considered what Ronnie said earlier. Making an appearance now might not be a bad idea.

After taking a couple swigs standing up, she walked to the couch and sat beside him. “In about 15 minutes, we’re leaving for the hospital. But I need you to drive.”

(continue to Part Seven)

(go back to Part Four)

Trena lay quietly, but she couldn’t tell it from the siren’s wail. Her first look inside an ambulance wasn’t what she would have picked. Having to remain so still, she let her eyes take in the interior.

On the left were a cushioned gray bench and several black straps rolled up next to the wall. At the end of the bench, on a shiny gray surface, were two red doors emblazoned with a strange symbol she didn’t recognize, but that seemed to be a warning. Straight down past her feet were the ambulance doors, and above them a big analog clock like the one that hung on the wall in elementary school. To the right was a device that looked like what they used on “ER” to zap people having heart attacks. Next to that was a smaller bench, and a little further up that side was a laptop computer.

“It’s not too scary, is it?” her EMT said.

Her brain told her face to smile, but she wasn’t sure what expression came out.

“Good. We’re trying to take good care of you while we get you to the hospital.”

Thank you. If I could, I would jump up and squeeze you and kiss you all over your face. You are my hero.

She doubted all that got through in the few facial muscles she managed to twitch. All the same, he smiled and placed the palm of his hand on her head. He had large, strong, comforting hands.

As long as he’s with me, nothing can hurt me.

Her mind flashed back to the top of the stairs. Ronnie had reached out to grab her when she fell. So he didn’t push me down on purpose.

She made out a sheet of paper beside the back doors that looked like the inspection certificate in an elevator. As she tried to make out the details, her vision blurred. She felt her eyes flutter as she fought to stay awake.

——-

“It was an accident!” Ronnie yelled as he jumped sideways to avoid Larry Outhouse’s wrath. He landed hard on his shoulder.

Adjusting his arms to reach for the boy, Outhouse flattened Susan.

“Mom!” Ronnie cried, already back on his feet.

Outhouse was trying to roll off Susan, who was grunting in her effort to help him.

You get away from my mom, you son of a bitch.

Ronnie ran over and kicked a spot where he thought Outhouse’s ribs might be, under all that blubber. The man groaned as he finally completed the roll onto his back. Then he started wheezing.

“Ronnie, stop it!” Susan yelled.

“Larry!” cried Mrs. Outhouse.

Ronnie backed up a few steps to make way for Mrs. Outhouse, who knelt down to her husband. She reached into his front pocket and pulled out an inhaler, then shoved the mouthpiece into his waiting maw. A few puffs later, his breathing slowed.

“Please, what’s happened to Trena?” Mrs. Outhouse said.

“There was an accident,” Susan said. “She fell down a flight of stairs. Ronnie rushed right over and I called 911.”

Mr. Outhouse had propped himself up on his elbow, his breathing still labored. “I’ll deal with you later, boy. Honey, go get some clothes. We’re heading to the hospital.”

Mrs. Outhouse hurried into the apartment.

“We’ll come, too,” Ronnie said.

“You certainly will not,” Mr. Outhouse said.

“But I –”

“Have done enough already.”

“He’s right, honey. Trena’s in good hands now. Let’s just stay here and try to cool off.”

They didn’t see her like I did. They didn’t hear it. The sound had been the worst part. Not the bumping and banging, although that was bad. No, what haunted him was that after all that, there was no screaming, no crying. Just silence.

Dead silence.

(Go on to Part Six)

(see Part Three here)

Susan and Ronnie stood and followed the paramedics, stopping at the bottom of the stairs to give them room. The landing was only four steps up, so they still had a good view of everything.

Helping the woman with dirty blond hair was a man at least 10 years her senior. He stood about six-four and looked like he would have no trouble throwing a patient over each shoulder, if the situation called for it.

Mother and son watched as they performed a quick check of Trena’s vitals. Susan almost chimed in that her pulse seemed fine, but figured they were professionals and that interrupting them served no purpose. After all, they had “EMT” stitched on their shirts, not her.

“Mom already checked her pulse,” Ronnie said.

That’s my boy. He always had been one of the few who believed in her, supported her. She patted his shoulder to get his attention, then put her index finger against her pursed lips. Ronnie furrowed his brow, but acquiesced with a shake of his head.

“Ma’am, what’s the patient’s name?” the female EMT asked.

“Trena, but that’s all I know. Where will you take her?”

“County, unless we hear different from her parents. I guess that’s not you. Do you know where they are?”

“We were just going to get them,” she said.

Susan motioned toward the living room and nudged Ronnie that direction.

“I want to see,” he said.

“We need to let them work, son. They might have to take some of her clothes off, and we need to spare her dignity. And we need to let her parents know what’s happening.”

They walked to the kitchen, a small workspace open to the living room. As she opened the sliding glass door onto the gated patio, she closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at him. “Son, I know this is a hard time for you, but I need to know now what you two were doing in there. Questions are going to come up, and you need to have your thoughts together.”

“I stopped, Mom.” He slid the door shut behind them.

Susan’s eyes got wide as she reached for the gate. “Stopped what?”

“Not that. Damn, Mom, I’m not completely stupid.”

She exhaled, then opened the gate and stepped onto the sidewalk. Ronnie followed and let it slam shut behind him.

“Well, that’s the best thing I’ve heard in the past 10 minutes.”

Ronnie stopped walking.

“Keep moving, son, this is important.”

“But… we kind of…”

She resisted stopping to brace herself. “Kind of what?” They were half way to Trena’s building now, and she needed information before she faced the girl’s parents.

Ronnie stared across the parking lot. “We were making out a little.” Then, to her. “But we totally had all our clothes on.”

“So, just a little dry humping, then?” Her voice was on edge.

“Mom! You’re the one always asking ‘did you get you some?’”

She smacked the back of his head. “Not from a little girl! Is this her apartment?”

“Yes.”

Susan knocked on the door. In an effort to look composed, she primped her hair and drew a few calming breaths.

“Hey, Mom, they have a doorbell right there.”

She jabbed the doorbell button. Within a couple minutes, Susan saw a light somewhere inside the apartment. Then, the light over the front door temporarily blinded her. I’ll look great through the peephole with my face in a squint. She noticed Ronnie shielding his eyes.

“Who is it?” said a muffled voice.

“Susan Batson from across the way. My son is Ronnie.”

“Ronnie?” The deadbolt scraped and the door opened.

“Hi, Mr. Outhouse,” Ronnie said.

Outhouse? Despite the serious circumstance, Susan barely kept from cracking a smile. Peering inside, she saw a four-foot Elvis doll standing at the end of the living room couch. It was lounge-lizard Elvis.

“Ronnie. What are you doing over here so late?” Outhouse asked.

A frantic woman’s voice called from inside the apartment, “Larry, Trena’s not in her room, and I can’t find her.”

“Is that why you’re here, Ronnie?” Outhouse asked. His disapproving tone made Ronnie shrink closer to and with one shoulder behind his mother.

“Well, we were…” Ronnie’s voice shook.

“Trena’s been hurt, sir,” Susan said. “The paramedics are taking her to County Hospital, and we wanted you to know as soon as possible.”

Outhouse lunged for Ronnie. “Why, you little sack of shit!”

——-

Trena saw bright lights on lots of white. She glanced down, almost crossing her eyes, at a clear plastic nose cup covering her nose and mouth. She had seen doctors on “ER” use them when someone had trouble breathing, and when Debbie Jamison’s dad punched Stephanie Moore’s dad at the league soccer championship game. I’m having trouble breathing?

She heard voices, one very close, one somewhere behind her head. Something about somebody’s legs and back being in pretty bad shape. She darted her eyes to the right and saw a large man with neatly-trimmed brown hair. With a shaky hand, she reached up to remove the nose cup.

“Whoa, whoa, no ma’am. We’ll have none of that,” the man said. He pressed it back against her face.

She shook her head.

“You trying to tell me something?”

She nodded.

He lifted the nose cup away from her face far enough for her to speak.

“Where?” She barely recognized her hoarse voice. “Where am I?”

“Partner. She’s awake.

“You’re in an ambulance. We’re taking you to the hospital after that nasty fall.”

She remembered being in the apartment with Ronnie, and being in pain at the bottom of the stairs. Now, however, she felt a lot better. Her body knew where the pain should be, but it didn’t hurt anymore.

“We’ve given you pain relievers. A quick trip down a flight of stairs pretty much guarantees you lots of those.”

(go on to Part Five)

(Click to go to go back to Part Two)

Susan hung up the phone after 911 said someone was on the way.

She wasn’t going to sit there waiting for an ambulance when her son might be in danger. Whatever had hurt that Trena girl could hurt him, too. Who the hell is… She remembered a girl with that name, but she was much too young for Ronnie. No, not her.

She cinched the front of her robe and headed for the door. “She’s only 12, maybe 13, for God’s sake,” she said to the empty entryway. She grabbed her keys off the nearby hook as she opened the door, then turned the knob lock and slammed the door shut behind her.

——-

Ronnie sat down beside Trena on the landing. Her eyes were closed again, but he could tell from the slight rise and fall of her chest that she was breathing. He had never seen an unconscious person before that day, and he was the one who had knocked her out.

Unlike before he left her to get his mom, her face showed no sign of pain. She looked peaceful. She looked young. Disgusted with himself, he stood and walked away, his second step a windup to kick the wall. Regaining his presence of mind, he used the momentum to turn on the ball of his foot.

“You stupid chickenshit!” he yelled. Trena lay there twisted, possibly broken, and he couldn’t even kick a wall without fear of hurting himself.

If only he’d been content to listen to his music and then go to bed, none if this would have happened.

He hated his sexual desire. It seemed to direct nearly everything he did. Whatever might get him in contact with the opposite sex, he did it, whether he knew his true motive or not. He longed for the days when he could kiss a girl and tackle her in the same recess period without his hormones getting involved.

He heard the front door open. That was fast, he thought.

“Ronnie?” his mother called.

“Over here, Mom.”

She gasped as she rounded the corner into the living room. “Oh my God. What happened?” She rushed to Trena’s side and placed two fingers on her wrist.

“Did you call 911? Are they coming?”

“Yes, son. You didn’t answer my question.”

“We were upstairs talking and when we started back down, she fell. I tried to catch her, Mom.” his voice broke. “I think she’s really messed up.”

“Well, she has a pulse.” Susan stroked Trena’s hair, then spoke to her. “Help’s on the way, sweetie.”

She turned to Ronnie. “What were you doing bringing her to a vacant apartment late at night?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to hang out with somebody, and she lives right across the way.”

“She’s 12, son.”

“No, 13.”

“It doesn’t matter. There’s a big difference between 13 and 15.”

“Can we talk about this later, Mom?”

Susan took a deep breath. “Yes. That’s a good idea. Besides, the paramedics should be here soon.”

They sat in the entryway, their backs against the plain white wall, Trena still in their line of sight. Susan put her arm around Ronnie and pulled him in close. He sobbed.

“I didn’t mean it, Mom. I was just… we were… she’s gotta be okay, Mom.”

Ronnie had dried up most of his tears when the paramedics arrived.

“Where’s the patient?” asked a woman with dirty blond hair.

“She’s on the landing,” Susan said. She pointed. “Over there.”

(Go on to Part Four)

(continued from Part One)

He kept his eyes closed for a moment, hoping to hear something, just a little sound indicating that she was okay. When he opened them, slowly, he saw Trena, still lying there with one side of her head touching her shoulder and her arms and legs akimbo.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. No matter how hard he tried to suppress it, his imagination showed him Trena’s funeral, in the rain, his accusers surrounding the coffin, staring down at his aroused state.

His hand on the rail, Ronnie rushed down the stairs to her side. “Come on, wake up, wake up!” he shouted.

She didn’t stir.

He patted her face. “Please, Trena, you have to be okay. You have to.” His voice quivered as he grabbed her hand.

She grunted. A weak cough pushed her lips apart and puffed Ronnie’s hair from his forehead.

“That’s it. Breathe.”

He’d always heard not to move someone who might have a neck or spine injury.

“Look. You stay here and don’t move. I’m going for help.”

She squeezed his hand and opened her eyes, as if she wanted him to stay.

“I have to go find somebody. My apartment’s just one building over. I’ll be right back.”

He pushed her hand off his and gently stroked her hair before he ran out the door.

——-

She sat there, all alone, the pain radiating from her back and neck. Her head hurt the worst. She knew she had bumped it at least once going down, and although she was pretty sure that last whack had been a big one, she couldn’t remember it.

Her left knee hurt, too, like that time she and another girl collided in a fifth-grade soccer game.

Just a few minutes before, she had felt his excited body on hers, knew that in that passionate moment he had responded to her as a man would a woman. She had been thrilled by it, but just as quickly, rejected. She knew it was because of her age.

Then there was the current matter at hand.

Did he mean to push me down the stairs?

A spasm arched her back, causing her to lift her head, sending searing needles through her neck. She had never felt pain like that. Consciousness almost slipped away. Trying to remain still, she prayed that didn’t happen again. She wasn’t sure she could take another of those.

A cute, older guy likes me, and now this.

It was her first time sneaking out of her apartment. It’s just my luck.

She passed out.

——-

“Mom, Mom!” a voice called from downstairs.

Susan opened her eyes and rolled over to look at the clock. 11:30

“Mom!” Ronnie’s voice grew louder.

She reached for her glasses on her nightstand, but knocked over a glass of water instead. “Oh, dammit!”

Her bedroom door swung open and banged the wall.

“Mom, it’s Trena! I think she’s hurt bad!”

Susan finally found her glasses and put them on to look at her son.

“What? Who’s Trena?”

“A girl from across the parking lot. Look. Don’t get mad. Apartment 14B. Call 911! I gotta go check on her!” He ran from the room.

“Ronnie, wait!” she called after him.

“I can’t, Mom. I told her I would be right back!”

She heard him bound down the stairs and slam the front door. Still groggy, she grabbed the phone from her nightstand. It was wet from the water spill. She punched the button to get a dial tone. Nothing.

“Dammit!”

She grabbed her robe from the stationary bike’s handlebars and managed to push her hands through the arm holes as she rushed downstairs to the kitchen phone. On her way, she tried to make sense of what he had just told her. Don’t get mad? She couldn’t imagine what he might have done. He had always been such a good kid.

The phone on the kitchen wall worked fine. For the first time in her life, she dialed 911.

“Please state the nature of your emergency.”

“A girl has been hurt.”

(continue to Part Three)