Chapter 3 #2
“Um, can I make you that sandwich?” I asked as I moved to the refrigerator to grab the supplies I’d need.
The soup shelter wasn’t blessed with a lot of donations, so the appliances were older and didn’t have the capacity to feed as many people as Father O would have liked, but I’d never seen him turn someone away.
I’d add some extra money to the locked donation box that sat at the end of the serving line to cover the cost of the extra food for Phoenix.
I felt rather than saw Phoenix behind me, but he didn’t linger and by the time I had the meat, mayo and lettuce in my hands, he was back in the chair.
I didn’t miss the fact that he hadn’t answered me, nor had he taken his eyes off me.
The sensation of being watched made me uncomfortable, especially since my goal in life was to be invisible, but I forced myself to focus on fixing the food.
“I’m sorry, all we have is leftover turkey,” I murmured as I worked.
“That’s fine.”
I worked quickly, but when I reached for the plate with the sandwich on it to carry it over to where Phoenix was sitting, I heard him say, “Would you mind cutting it?”
I stilled at that and shot him a glance. It was a somewhat odd request, but who was I to judge?
I returned the plate to the counter and then took a deep breath as I reached for one of the butcher knives in the small block near the sink, since it would have looked strange to bypass them and search out one of the blunt dinner knives that were kept along with all the other silverware in a basket at the beginning of the serving line.
It should have been the easiest thing in the world to grab the knife and cut through the sandwich. It would literally take the average person a few seconds.
Except I wasn’t average.
Oh God, stop! Please, I swear, I’m telling you the truth!
I flinched at the sound of the man’s voice in my head…as loud now as it had been that night. And the young man’s tortured sobs as he’d tried to be brave …
“You okay?”
I jerked at the sensation of Phoenix’s hand on my forearm.
When had he gotten up and moved to my side?
I glanced down to see the fingers of my right hand biting into the edge of the plate so hard that my knuckles had gone bloodless.
The knife was sitting next to the plate. The sandwich hadn’t been cut.
I let out a choked laugh as I said, “Yeah, sorry, not sure what’s wrong with me today.”
I did know what was wrong, but I certainly wasn’t going to tell him. I mean, what was I supposed to say?
Um yeah, I watched a sick fuck carve up an innocent kid like he was nothing more than a Christmas ham and I stood by and did nothing.
And now every time I pick up anything sharper than a butter knife, I’m right back in that house listening to a father beg for his son’s life and wishing I had even half his kid’s courage so I could do something, anything to stop it all.
“You took a couple of pretty good hits,” Phoenix said softly…so softly that I automatically looked up at him. This time he didn’t look angry, just…confused.
That couldn’t be right, could it?
“Yeah, I guess,” I lied. “Sorry.” I looked at the knife again, but when I felt the familiar bile crawling up my throat, I stepped away from the plate. “I should get you some coffee,” I practically yelled. I quickly turned my back on him, hoping like hell he’d cut his own damn sandwich.
I took my time getting a mug from the cabinet above the coffee machine and by the time I’d located the container of powdered creamer and the basket holding the sugar packets, Phoenix was back at the small table, his sandwich cut, but untouched in front of him.
I filled the mug and took it and the other items to the table.
I was barely aware of Phoenix thanking me. “Um, I need to get started on dinner.”
Phoenix nodded and waved me away. “Of course. Thank you for this,” he said as he motioned to the coffee and sandwich.
I nodded and turned away from him. I was very aware of Phoenix’s eyes on me as I started prepping everything, but I was still too embarrassed by my behavior to even consider looking his way or try drawing him into conversation.
In fact, I was regretting even inviting him inside to wait for dinner service to start.
The routine of cooking started to relax me and after a while I nearly forgot about Phoenix all together until his rumbly voice had me jumping back from the pot of potatoes I was boiling so I could ultimately mash them.
“Is it okay if I wash this by hand?”
With my heart still racing, I looked over my shoulder at him and saw the empty plate in his hand. A small part of me was pleased to see he’d eaten all the food I’d made for him. I shook off the silly thought and said, “You can just leave it in the sink. I’ll wash it in a bit.”
The soup kitchen had a dishwasher, but it had broken a long time ago and it didn’t make sense to put money that could be spent on other things towards fixing it when it was just as easy, if not a little more time consuming, to wash the dishes by hand.
On the days when I didn’t have to go to work after dinner service ended, I actually looked forward to the monotony of washing dishes.
“I don’t mind,” Phoenix said as he moved towards the sink. “I’m one of those people,” he added.
“Those people?” I asked.
“You know, the ones who wash the dishes before they put them in the dishwasher. Or have to have everything put in the dishwasher just so.”
I chuckled. “My mom was one of those…used to drive my dad crazy, especially after all the shit she gave him for not helping with the dishes.”
“My mom too. She and I were constantly reorganizing the dishwasher after the other was done.”
“What about your dad?” I asked.
“He and my sister wisely stayed out of the kitchen before and after dinner.” Phoenix glanced over his shoulder at me. “The kitchen was my mom’s domain…mine too, I guess.”
I smiled at that. It wasn’t exactly the manliest thing to admit to. “I used to cook with my mom all the time. Dishes were supposed to be my dad and brother’s responsibility, but my dad usually got out of it by sweet-talking my mom.”
“What about your brother?”
The warmth of the memory dissipated. “Ricky never did much of anything he didn’t want to do.”
My brother had been one of those kids who’d been born bad to the bone.
Although I’d still been a baby when he’d been a small child, I’d heard stories of his behavior, mostly from fights I’d overheard between my parents as they’d blamed each other for how Ricky had turned out.
My mother had been accused of coddling and spoiling Ricky too much while my father had apparently used a heavy hand to discipline Ricky, even when he’d been a toddler.
The result had been an angry, narcissistic kid with a violent temper and a sadistic streak a mile long.
At the tender age of ten, Ricky had stabbed my mother in the hand with his fork after she’d ordered him to finish his carrots.
Not surprisingly, my mother had been afraid of him after that and had done nothing to address his increasingly volatile and violent behavior.
My father had seemed to fear Ricky as well, because he’d stopped taking his temper out on Ricky and had laid it all on me.
I hadn’t fared any better with my brother.
But of course, I would have welcomed the beatings if that was all Ricky had been interested in.
My body instantly went cold and I felt the tell-tale numbness start to settle over me. I put my hands on the edge of the stove and enjoyed the warmth that seeped into my fingers from the metal. The heat from the burner flame helped too, but it wasn’t enough.
I couldn’t do this…not here.
Not now.
Ricky was gone.
I tried to pull up the day the cops had shown up at our door to tell my father that Ricky’s body had been found in a culvert by an underpass on the city’s south side, but I couldn’t hang on to the memory.
As sick as it sounded, it had ended up being one of the best days of my life.
I’d been standing behind my father when he’d been told his oldest kid was dead.
I’d let out this hysterical laugh which had earned me a harsh look from my father that I’d known would be accompanied by a punch or slap at some point after the cops left, but I hadn’t cared because all I’d been able to think that was I was finally free. I’d gone to my room and cried.
Big, wet, happy tears.
It had taken me hours to stop and even after my father had kicked my ass for disrespecting Ricky’s memory, I’d continued to celebrate his death.
A twisted part of me had wanted to go find the cops and ask them if I could see Ricky’s body, since I knew my father wouldn’t let me go with him to identify my brother at the coroner’s office.
I’d slept like a rock that night, regardless of all the guilt I still carried around with me.
But despite Ricky’s death, his memory lived on in my mind.
And it didn’t take much to send me back to the days where I’d lie in my bed in the room I’d shared with Ricky when we were just kids and stifle a whimper every time I heard the springs in his mattress creaking.
Most times he’d just been turning over in his sleep, but not always.
My vision began to dim as the chill in my body started to spiral out to my limbs. I needed to excuse myself so I could at least escape to the bathroom, but I knew it was already too late. I’d waited too long.
As my knees buckled and hit the floor, my last coherent thought was, even from the grave, Ricky was still winning.