18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Silas
I ’ve got money on the brain. Money and liquor.
It was stupid to lose my shit yesterday on Steve when he told me I was done. I should have left it alone. Then maybe I could have gone back tomorrow and tried to convince him to hire me back. Not to mention that it’s embarrassing he had to escort my drunk, passed-out self back to the camper. He’s a decent guy; he stuck his neck out for me by giving me that job in the first place. And then on top of it, he lugged me all the way back to Trudy after I treated him like crap.
And I shouldn’t have bought that stupid cotton candy machine this afternoon, either. I have no job, and only fourteen dollars left to my name. I let myself get swept up in the moment and in everything that was so good about today. But it was a dumb move. Now I don’t even have enough money left to buy a fifth of vodka, let alone anything for next week or the rest of the month.
And all I can think about is the fact that we’re camped out in the middle of nowhere - literally miles from anyplace where I might be able to score booze. Because even though I may be broke, I can be resourceful when a situation calls for it. Which this situation does. So I have no idea what I was thinking going along with this plan. It’s going to be another long night, and I’m dreading it already. As in, I am literally sweating just thinking about it. I would trade the rest of my smokes for just a couple shots of anything right now. Just to take the edge off. Just to stop myself from fixating on my lack of access to liquor.
And yeah: I do get the irony there .
Trudy’s screen door screeches open and Jackie steps outside. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, except it’s not really long enough to stay tied up, so a bunch of strands have come loose and they fall around her face in a way that, honestly, is kind of hot.
And what the hell is wrong with me that I am even noticing stuff like that about Jackie fucking Delaney?
I must need a drink even worse than I thought.
“You okay?” she asks, sounding sweet and worried and a little tired.
“I’m fine.”
I hate that I feel so irritated by her concern right now. She hasn’t pried all day, or been condescending or anything. She’s been nothing but nice.
She nods, but her expression doesn’t change. Actually, she looks like she’s going to ask me something else, but instead she just says, “I’m gonna call Richard and Meryl now… you want me to bring the phone out when I’m done? So you can talk to Richard out here?”
What she means is so I can talk to Richard alone. She’s trying to butt out of my business, and still I’m irritated and on edge for no reason at all. I take a puff off the cigarette I just lit, then tap the ashes into the coke can I’ve been using as an ashtray.
“Sure.”
She stands there for another second, watching me. “Okay.”
She offers me a smile, which I reciprocate with a nod. Then she turns and heads back inside. She leaves the main door open, though, so it’s impossible not to overhear her entire conversation through the screen door. Her voice when she talks to her adopted parents is loud and happy. So buoyant, I bet it could actually float.
She talks with them for about twenty minutes, and then she appears in the doorway again. This time, she walks right over to the picnic table and extends the phone to me. She looks so alive right now: her eyes round and bright with happiness. It makes me ache and goddammit; I have no idea why. I avert my gaze so I don’t have to deal with it. Because even though I can’t handle that look on her face, I also don’t want to be the one to wipe it away this time .
“Here,” she says, handing me her phone. “It’s Richard.”
Like there might be someone else calling me on her cell.
I take it, jaw clenched and eyes focused on the forest of trees beyond the clearing, even though I know her eyes are still on me. I wait a beat and when she turns to head back inside, I bring the phone up to my ear.
“Hey.”
“Silas, my man. How are you?”
My man? Seriously? Did this guy forget he’s two-hundred-and-seven years old?
I roll my eyes because thank God for small favors, he can’t see me.
“Fine.”
“Well, that’s good to hear,” he enthuses. “And sounds like last night was fantastic.”
“Yeah.”
I’m not surprised Jackie didn’t rat me out about the shitshow I was last night. I’d be more surprised if she did , at this point. And that only makes me feel worse.
“It was nice of you to help Jackie out.”
“Sure. It was no problem.”
I am such a scumbag.
To be fair, I did try. She’s the one who got her knickers all in a twist over a spoonful of Nutella smeared on her precious cookies.
And why did that sentence just sound so dirty?
“Silas, listen.” Richard’s voice turns more serious. “I told you last night I wanted to chat this evening.”
And here it goes: the deep dive into my oh-so-troubled teenage brain.
He pauses, like he’s waiting for me to fill in the silence.
I don’t.
“I’d like to talk to you a bit about your relationship with your aunt and uncle.”
Well, that sounds like it’ll be a blast and a half.
“The physical abuse… With your uncle. How long ago did that start? ”
“What?” I shake my head. Stupid, because he can’t see me. But I can’t help it. I’m baffled—that he actually bought that bullshit Jackie fed him the other day. I mean, has he seen me? I’m six-foot-two. More man than my uncle, who, yeah, is strong as hell, but still—fat and a good few inches shorter than me. And lazy as a hippo. We get in some fights for sure, and he and my aunt smack me around some. But it’s deserved every single time. And any time these days that my uncle does any serious damage, it’s only because he waits until I’m half in the bag. Otherwise, I give back as good as I get. Since I turned sixteen at least, Uncle Karl’s been walking away from our fights just as bashed up as me.
“There was no physical abuse ,” I snap.
“Alright… I’m sorry.” He pauses, like we’re playing chess and he’s strategizing his next move.
“This isn’t a game, asshole,” I want to tell him. “This is my life.”
I don’t say anything though, and he tries again.
“When Jackie mentioned the bruises… and the text that she saw from your friend about—”
“We fought sometimes, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Okay… Can you tell me what you mean when you say ‘you fought’?”
“I mean we fought .”
“And sometimes he would hit you?”
I roll my eyes again.
“That’s the general idea, isn’t it, when people fight?”
“It can be, yes… Sometimes fighting can be physical.” Another calculated silence. “Jackie mentioned that you were passed out the last time he hit you. Can you tell me about that?”
Um, that would be a hard no . Not going down that path, but thanks so much for asking.
I run a hand through my hair.
“Look, I know where you’re going with this, and trust me, there’s no need to file a CPS report here. My uncle didn’t abuse me. Anything Karl did to me—it wasn’t anything I didn’t deserve.”
Understatement of the century right there, ladies and gentlemen .
But our man Richard is still not getting it. And it’s throwing me for a loop, because I have never in my life been in a situation where I’m trying to convince an adult that I’m the guilty one . The finger’s usually pointed in the opposite direction: straight-the-hell at me, while I peddle my innocence like a desperate lawyer trying to plea-bargain my way out of a drawn-out sentence.
“Alright, let’s talk a bit more about that,” he says. Still thoughtful and treading so carefully, it’s putting me on edge.
I know he’s seen my rap sheet. He knows I’m not some misunderstood, innocent kid who needs defending. Everything that’s been done to me, I’ve had it coming. And then some.
“Give me an example, Silas… of something you did to deserve being hit by your uncle.”
“An example? ”
Christ, this guy.
“Let’s talk about the last time—when your friend found you on the lawn. What did you do that time to bring on your uncle’s anger?”
I hesitate before answering, because I want to get him off my case about this bullshit with my uncle. But also, I’m driving across the entire east coast of the country with his adopted daughter. This “special arrangement” is what’s keeping me out of Trenton right now.
So I tell him the truth: that I came home drunk—because that’s my best shot. He’s not going to rally for a kid who admits to underage drinking, then coming home plastered and not even bothering to hide it from his guardians.
Only there’s a brief silence on his end, and I worry for a second that I blew it. And then: “Okay… Can you elaborate a little more?”
I came home drunk. What more does he want?
“Well, uh, that’s pretty much it. I mean… I was supposed te be home by eleven and I wasn’t. And I wasn’t supposed to be drinking, and I did. My uncle had every right to be pissed when he found me passed out on the lawn at hell-knows what time in the middle of the night.”
“Silas…” Richard says, his voice low and steady, like he’s trying to soothe a lion cub. “Coming home drunk is not a reason for your uncle—or for anyone—to hurt you. No behavior makes it okay for your guardians to harm you in any way.”
I rub the back of my neck, pacing in a slow circle. He is not getting this.
“Look, I appreciate you trying to look out for me, Doc. But you’re getting the wrong idea. Believe me, I deserved the ass-kicking I got that night.” I pause and add: “And every other time, too… So we’re all good, here.”
But he’s like a dog with a bone: he won’t let it go. He comes back with more questions. He wants to know if I ever talked to anyone about the altercations with my uncle (No), or if I ended up seeing a therapist to talk about the incident surrounding my parents’ deaths (also No). Then he wants to know if I think I’m a bad person (my lengthy rap sheet is answer enough for that one), and when the first time was my uncle punished me physically. I laugh at this one, because it was the honest-to-God first day they moved in with me - two weeks after my parents died. I trashed my room — literally tore it to shreds: upturned all the furniture, ripped the bedding and curtains, smashed every item I owned and kicked my ten-year-old shoe right through the gyprock.
So yeah, I think it’s safe to say I was asking to have my ass handed to me. I was a little tyrant, and it only escalated from there. My aunt and uncle tried to tame me, but I just kept fighting back harder and stronger over the years.
“I want you to imagine something for me, Silas,” the good doctor says. “I want you to imagine a little boy… A boy about ten years old, who comes home from school one day and finds both his parents dead. And that little boy has no-one to comfort him. His best friend gets taken in by a nice older couple, but that little boy is put into a house to live for two weeks with a family he doesn’t know. And then two weeks later, a man and a woman he’s never met before come to live with him and he’s told they’re going to be his new family. And even though they’re his aunt and uncle, he doesn’t know them.”
Richard pauses here, and even though I was ready to cut him off a second ago, now I’m pulled in by the story. And yeah, I get that it’s a story about me. But it’s weird hearing about it this way—like I’m just some stranger looking in on my life from the outside .
“The boy is sad,” Richard continues, “because he misses his mom and dad so much. And he misses his best friend. He feels alone and confused and sometimes he feels scared because of what he saw that day when he found his parents, and it makes him feel all sorts of things that he doesn’t know how to untangle. And that makes him angry. He is so angry because it’s all so unfair and confusing and overwhelming.”
“He’s so angry that he tears apart his room. He kicks the walls and defaces them. And then the door suddenly opens and the boy longs for it to be his mom or his dad or his best friend who walks through that door. Only it isn’t any of them, because they’re all gone now. It’s his uncle who comes in. And when the uncle sees what the boy did to his room, he is furious.”
Richard stops here, and the line goes completely silent, except for the heavy sound of my breathing.
“Do you think the boy deserves to be punished?” Richard finally asks. And for the first time since I’ve met him, I don’t totally resent him.
My breathing is shallow and labored. I feel like I am in the room with that boy. And when I answer, my voice is barely above a whisper.
“No,” I say.
And then, in my head, I finish:
“But I do.”
Because, unlike that boy, I wasn’t just scared and lonely.
I was guilty, too.