Authors: Christopher Hoskins
Mr.
Laverdier approached my mom, whose arms extended out. Palms up and head back,
she looked to the sky.
“NOOOOOO!!!”
My yell caught Catee’s attention, and her look followed me as I sprinted toward
the door of the building.
Her
body hurled at mine when I reached the bottom of its three, metal steps, and
she knocked me to the ground. I fought to get up, but she pinned me there and
muffled my screams with a tight hand, clasped over my mouth.
“Shhhhh!!!!
What are you doing! You’re going to get us caught!”
Her
hand slipped enough that I was able to get out what I’d tried to get there in
time to stop.
“He
just stuck a needle in my mom!!!
February
13
th:
Catee
returned to school that Monday, following our families’ dinner convergence.
When I stepped into the front lobby, there she was, waiting for me. She’d
already scored us a library pass by telling the secretaries we needed to finish
a project for class. Finally, we’d have some alone time to process everything
that’d happened since we broke into her dad’s office. It had all happened so
fast and without warning that it was almost impossible to explain.
“So
why’s he looking at some place in Damariscotta?” I led with a whisper after
we’d settled, hands clasped across the table, and with books and papers spread
around us to give the illusion, but nothing else, of work.
“I
don’t know. Just the timing of everything, I guess. Him, losing his job. Us,
going through his things. Maybe he’s feeling attacked and this is his way of
retreating or something.”
“But
that doesn’t make any sense. I mean, has he said
anything
else to you
about it? Did you guys even talk about it?”
“Of
course. We talked about it at great length, Damian. He told me he valued my
insight and that he wanted my opinion before he made any decisions.” The
sarcasm of her words landed like a lead weight on the table.
“Point
made. I get it,” I said, and backed down some. “Well, did he say
anything
about it?”
“He
certainly didn’t
explain
anything to me, if that’s what you’re hoping to
hear. He told me it wasn’t up for discussion. That he was taking a look at the
place this week and that if he liked it, he was putting an offer on it. He said
he’s putting our house on the market, too, and that as soon as it sells, we’re
moving. And that if I handle myself properly, he’ll wait until the end of the
school year, but if not, we’ll move before our place even sells. He said he’d
rather it sit empty than keep me here, where I can’t be trusted.”
“Wow.
WOW.” I repeated for emphasis. “So what do we do now?”
“Do
now? There’s not a whole lot we
can
do, Damian. I can’t stand it. I
hate
him.”
“I
hate him, too, Catee.”
“But,
on a more surprising note, he
did
say that you’re welcome to come over
anytime you want.”
“What!?”
I was more confused and alarmed by that, than anything she’d disclosed until
then. “What do you mean, I can come over anytime I want? What’s that about? Why
the sudden change of heart?”
“I
don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it ever since he said it. Maybe it’s about
keeping your friends close and your enemies closer, or something like that.
Maybe he just wants us there, now that
he’s
there, so he can keep an eye
on us.”
“Maybe
he just wants to give us the chance to slip-up so he can pull you away from me
and move you from Madison, forever.” With my addition, we’d theorized two
possible explanations for his quick turn-around; either was equally
plausible.
“Maybe.
But we’re not going to give him that satisfaction. We’re going to keep things
calm. Keep things quiet. And we’re going to keep to ourselves. I don’t trust
him, Damian. I’ve seen him for four days straight now, and I’ve seen how crazy
he’s been acting. I can hear him talking to himself from my room, rambling on
and on about not being appreciated. About not getting the credit he deserves.
How it’s not right. That it’s unfair. That God’s never given a shit about him.”
“You
actually heard him say that?”
“Those
exact words.”
“WOW.”
I said it again because all others evaded me. “Like, more than once?”
“Like,
all weekend. He’s been rambling on and on to himself and packing his office.”
“Why?”
“I
don’t know.”
“Where’s
he taking it?”
“I
don’t know. The new place, maybe?”
“But,
why his office?”
“Because
he’s crazy.” Her flat response came with helpless duress. “Because he’s lost
his mind, and he’s not right anymore.”
Catee
admitted an honest truth. And as much as it must’ve pained her to say it, she
couldn’t brush it off as theory any longer.
She’d read what I’d read.
She’d seen what I’d seen.
And she’d witnessed his
unraveling—first-hand. And, trapped together for four, straight
days—since his release from Madison General—to ignore the writing
on the wall would’ve made her just as unstable as him.
And
I agreed to reenter the lion’s den.
Not so much because I wanted to investigate him anymore.
I’d learned enough already.
I accepted the invitation because
she
needed me there, and there was no way I’d allow the girl I loved to be left
high, dry, and alone with a madman—even if my consent meant giving him
exactly what he wanted.
February
14
th:
Having
met and instantly liked Mr. Laverdier, my mom supported the union of Catee and
me more than ever, and she was more than happy to resume regular trips to
Madison, just so the two of us could have our time together. And though much of
our time would be spent on school grounds or neighboring crash-spots, it always
ended with an hour back at her place for dinner with her dad, who’d taken up
cooking and caretaking in the absence of time spent at the hospital.
Drawing
inspiration from my own, he’d decided to hold a family dinner that began
promptly at 5:00 each evening. Comparable to my own, he’d also initiated his
own tradition, but he called it the “Good” and the “Bad” of your day, in a weak
attempt to sound less contrived than it actually was.
I
looked at him and nervously turned the pasta over and over in my bowl, waiting
for him or Catee to break the silence of our first, awkward “Family Dinner”. I
certainly wasn’t going to be the first to do so. As close as I was to her, he
was nothing like family to me. I detested him. I hated him. And I wanted to
jump across the table and jam my fork in his throat. But I stifled the urge,
twirled as much pasta onto it as possible, and crammed my mouth full to
pack-down the words that fought to fly out.
“So,
Catee,” he began. “Tell us about your day. What was the Good and what was the
Bad?” he asked the question like his approach was something completely novel to
us. We looked to each other with disproval before she bought in and began.
“Okay,”
she started. “Well, the Good of my day was that I got my phone back. Thank you,
Dad
.” His title came out artificially. “And the Bad of my day is that I
see you’ve been packing, and I’m worried it’s going to take me away from
Madison and away from Damian.” Her look to me, to him, then back to me, was one
of genuine sorrow that he couldn’t ignore—not without ruining the
sickly-sweet persona he’d undertaken and coming across as the heartless monster
we knew him to be.
“Now,
Catee,” he approached his words with caution. “We’ve talked about this already,
and now that we’re all sitting down together, it might be something good for us
to clarify as a group. That includes you, Damian,” he turned and said as I
swallowed an almost suffocating forkful of carbs.
“I’m
not trying to keep the two of you apart, and as much as I might try, I know
I’ll never be able to do it. Absence only makes the heart grow fonder, and my
damnation of your relationship will only fuel it more. I’m old enough, wise
enough, and experienced enough to understand that much,” he revealed. “That’s
how it was with your mother and me, Catee, so I understand it very well.”
We
looked to each other with relief at his empathetic understanding of what we
were feeling.
“What
I want is for Damian to join us. I want his whole family to join ours. To be a
part of something new—something bigger—something purer.”
“
Purer”?
What was he talking about? What was PURER supposed to mean?
“I
want us to be one, big family. And as that, we’ll make a new beginning. For
everyone. Everywhere. It’ll be our chance to remake things in our own vision.”
His
glossy eyes looked back and forth between us with maniacal passion for whatever
twisted utopia he was envisioning. I couldn’t wrap my own head around it.
What
was he talking about? What was he hoping for?
None of it made any sense at
the time, and it’d be months more before the unfathomable magnitude of his
words registered to either of us.
He
sounded like a madman and, judging from the horrified look on her face, Catee
saw it, too. But neither of us said anything in response to it. We didn’t dare
ripple the tranquility of whatever wacky waters his head was drifting on, so we
simply nodded with his prompting, added nothing, and delved no deeper into his
sea of insanity.
By
the time we’d finished our sharing (I said something trivial and without any
thought or feeling behind it, just to get my turn over and done with), and we
were beginning to clear the table, Mom honked cheerfully from the driveway. Mr.
Laverdier prepared dessert in the kitchen, and though I wanted nothing more
than to slip out the door and escape home to Platsville, I couldn’t. He
wouldn’t allow it. Not without inviting Mom inside.
She
graciously accepted the invitation, and the Laverdiers’ table more
superficially mirrored my own: capped with a mom and a dad at each end. Albeit,
my dad was more of one than Mr. Laverdier could’ve ever hoped to be, he was
Catee’s father, nonetheless.
“It’s
wonderful to have you in our home, Mrs. Lawson,” he spoke.
“Please,
David, call me Martha,” she insisted.
“Very
well. It’s wonderful to have you in our home, Martha,” he repeated with a
thin-lipped and forced smile. Her responsive one came across awkwardly
uncomfortable, and he moved to calm her as she picked away at her strawberry
shortcake. Catee and I watched with dumbfounded amazement at the stage that’d
been set, barely touching our own desserts.
“So,
I was just telling the kids how I want them to feel as comfortable in our home
as they do in yours. I hope you don’t mind, but I even borrowed a bit from some
of your own, family traditions.”
“No,
David. Not at all. I’m quite flattered, actually,” Mom admitted. “After all,
I’ve worked so hard to make my family what it is, and anything I can do to help
someone else’s is my extreme pleasure.”
Mr.
Laverdier rested back to process her words, and in mock flattery and admiration,
he replied, “And that’s why I told your son he’s welcome here anytime he likes.
You’ve raised a good boy, Martha. And you’re a good woman. I can tell. You’ve
got strong values, and I admire that about your character.” He delivered his
lines with an unwavering look that caused her to blush for one of the only
times I can remember. He’d found her soft-spot—family—and he was
using it to his advantage.
“It’s
not all perfect at our house either,” I piped-up to throw a wrench in Mr.
Laverdier’s wheel, but it deflected back at me in an instant.
“No
family is without its flaws, Damian.” He turned and addressed me as if he were
my own dad, while Mom just sat there and allowed it to happen. “Your mother can
only do so much, and from what I’ve observed, she’s doing a real fine job
raising you and your sister right. She deserves great praise for that, Damian.
You should be appreciative of everything she’s given and done for you.”
I
turned and looked to my mom for support, but the look I got back was complete
vacancy. So enamored by the praise she’d been saturated in, she couldn’t think
straight enough to notice that I’d been reprimanded by a guy who was basically
a complete stranger—someone who, for all we knew, was a complete psycho.
“I’m
just saying,” I continued. “Things aren’t so perfect at our place, either.
We’ve got our own problems.” I dug deep to unearth whatever those might be,
knowing I’d need definitive proof to support my case.
“Family
laundry is nothing to be aired at someone’s else’s dinner table.” Her dad
continued his rebuke while Mom sat silently by. “And for you and your family’s
sake, those are things that are best left to be worked out in the privacy of
your own home … like Catee and I do here. Isn’t that right, Catee?” he prodded.
“Sure,
Dad. Right.” Catee continued to turn her shortcake in front of her. She
listened, but didn’t eat a bite. She knew better than to voice what she was
really thinking. Anything said would’ve only fallen on deaf ears, or worse,
ones that would’ve distorted her words to create even more tension than we were
already feeling.