Built from Clay - Chapter 2
This is a work of fiction and may contain depictions of LGBTQ relationships. Please read the content warnings and leave if you find those topics triggering. Feel free to email me if you have any questions, comments, or feedback regarding this series.
Content warnings: Verbal abuse, grief, and self-harm
Chance
Chance was in the process of reheating tortillas in the microwave for himself and Liam when they heard the tell-tale thunderous rumbling of a car coming down their long driveway. It was already dark out. Michael would probably be spending the night with his mom in her bedroom after eating. If Liam didn't fight with bedtime, he'd have the living room TV to himself. Did Michael know about Tre though? He could get scary if he didn't. Chance knew that Michael had been asking them to sell their house in the country and move in with him. His house was nicer than theirs, and he lived on a block with other kids his age. But still, the idea made him uneasy.
"Liam," said Chance. "Don't tell Michael about Tre yet."
"Why not?"
"Mom will beat your ass and kill you."
"No she won't." He sat down at the table with his big tortilla coated in nacho cheese and salsa.
"Seriously," said Chance. "Don't say it. She doesn't want him to know yet."
The side door that they rarely used opened, sending a draft through the kitchen.
"Weeee're Hoooo-oome!" called Michael's gruff voice through the halls. He came round into the kitchen holding a large paper grocery bag in one hand and a lunch bag in the other. "Where's the lady of the house?" he asked.
"She went to bed," answered Chance. "We have food here."
"Don't mind if we do."
Michael Nguyen was a short light-skinned man of Vietnamese descent. He always stank of tobacco, which nobody in the house could stand, and he had two large muscular arms sheeted in tattoos that he kept exposed even in the winter that Chance couldn't help but find intimidating. He wore a black stubble, black-rimmed glasses, and had a black ring pierced into his right earlobe.
His four year old son, James, stood in the entryway to the kitchen watching him plate up food. He wore Captain America pajama bottoms, a long plain gray sweatshirt that went down to his knees but had its arms cut off at the elbows, and he still had on his Minnesota Vikings stocking cap. James looked close to falling asleep where he stood and was clearly struggling to keep his eyes open.
"Come on," Michael called to him. "We got some yummies."
James looked up at him pouting. Michael picked him up over his shoulder and carried him to the kitchen table, sitting him down next to Liam.
Michael gave James a plate cut up into pieces and then sat down at the head of the table, pouring out a bottle of hot sauce onto his own tortilla.
"What did Olivia mean when she wanted to talk earlier?"
"You can go ask her," said Chance. He regretted his words immediately. If Michael were in one of his bad moods, he'd be toast. But fortunately, he wasn't.
"She seemed pissed off about someone. Did you piss her off, Chance?" He nudged him with his foot playfully.
"She was sad about something."
"Well, I got her something that'll cheer her right up." He chuckled and continued eating. Chance eyed the brown paper bag. "Not for kids though. You didn't hear anything."
"Is it champaigne?"
"Something even better. We'll test drive it when the kids are fast asleep."
Chance didn't fully get what Michael was talking about but knew to abandon that line of questioning or risk picturing his mom having sex.
After dinner, Michael helped with the dishes and then laid James down on Liam's bed where they put on a movie. He brought the paper bag with him into the bedroom. It would only be a matter of time until he found out, but how would he take the news? Michael and his mom were both impossible to predict.
It didn't take long for Chance's sleep to be disturbed with a few loud crashes, James crying, and a huge fight between the couple. Their exact words were too muffled to make out, but Chance could tell they were cussing each other out. Doors slammed. Michael's pickup started. Michael's pickup flew down the driveway. Then everything went silent again, just like all the other times.
Tre
As if in a haze, I stepped from one room to the next and avoided that which I did not want to see. Sweat formed at my brow and in my pits under the too-tight black button-up shirt I was wearing. It covered up the bandage on my right wrist where I had pressed the blade of my swiss army knife the night before. Eyes bored into me. There was a smell of lavender. Gentle chatter.
The visitation was in full swing, and I had no intention of looking in the casket. No desire at all. I was only there because I was expected to be, because it was proper for the family of the deceased, like his wife had screamed at me when I tried to refuse. I looked blankly around. There was nobody I wanted to see and several people I wanted to avoid at all costs that I had to keep up my guard for.
"Bro!" A weird cologne-covered greasy-haired guy I didn't recognize was talking to me. Did he go to my school?
"H-hey."
"Sorry for your loss, dude." He put his hand on the shoulder, which I recoiled away from and brushed the spot where it had been instintively.
"No problem," I said meekly. His thick cologne was making me nauseous. I had to find an excuse to get away. But he kept talking.
"Hailey and me was real tight, dawg," he said slipping into hipster Ebonics, making a dramatic hand gesture to accompany it. "When I heard her dad died, I was like, 'oh my god, is she okay?' You're her baby brother. You're still a little kid. It must be so hard to lose your dad."
He looked like he was about to touch me again, and I stepped back to avoid it. "Did you graduate with her?" I asked, trying to be polite.
"Yeah, bro. We both go to Mizzou."
"Oh, I still haven't seen her." That was the first I'd heard she was going to Mizzou. It was always awkward when people pretended Veya's daughters and me were close. We rarely spoke to one another. After they moved out, they stopped existing. Even before that, it was just commands for me from over the tops of their phones.
"Go give your sister a hug, lil dawg. She loves you."
"I'll get right on that." I backed away from him slowly and then turned and hurried off into the crowd. I went to the bathroom, which was fortunately a single room with a lock. I checked myself in the mirror. Minus the damp sweat and tears in my eyes, I could have played the part of the corpse in this dramatized funeral. It was all a joke. All made up. There was a knock at the door. "Occupied!" I yelled. I couldn't even get any private time. I urinated, washed my hands, and left. Whoever was knocking so urgently must not have needed it that badly. I scanned the crowd for someone I wanted to talk to, someone who wouldn't treat me like a kid or be dramatic for my sake. I saw Veya talking to my pa's uniformed co-workers, who I needed to avoid at all costs. She would hold me up like a puppet and command me to greet each and every person with a smile.
And then she showed up. The last person I expected to see.
Standing near the visitation room dressed in a black pantsuit and holding the wrist of little blonde boy dressed with inappropriately bright colored street clothes was my mother.
I was thinking to myself how I could avoid her when she caught my eye and came over to me.
"Tre!" she called, striding over and dragging the little boy so fast he had to sprint to keep up.
"Honey! I was looking everywhere for you!" She pulled me into a hug. This one I didn't resist.
"Hi mom," I said.
"I haven't seen you in so long! You've gotten so big!" She squealed sweetly.
"I'm a shrimp, you liar," I said, forcing a smile.
"You look like you've been crying, honey. Are you okay?"
"Nah," I said, looking at the ground. I knew she hated him. He was the devil to her. She wouldn't understand. The tears started to well up again.
"Tre?" said the little blonde boy next to her.
"This is Tre, your older brother! Tre, this is baby Liam! Isn't he adorable?"
"I'm not a baby!" said Liam. "I'm six!"
She laughed loudly at this, drawing stares from the other funeral-goers.
"Hi little man," i said, bending down to address him and holding out my hand for him to high-five. He looked me over from head to toe and held out his arms. I picked him up, realizing midway that he probably just wanted a hug like I'd given my mom. I held him like a toddler with my right elbow under his bottom, the seam from his blue jeans boring into the cut on my wrist. He wrapped his arms around my neck in a hug, and I could tell he was still a little afraid of me. He shifted so I would put him back down and then continued to watch me without saying a word. My wrist felt like he'd scratched it up. I was afraid to check on my bandage there.
He pulled on my shirt near my injury like he knew. Did he feel the bandage? Oh, I realized, he wanted to tell me something. I leaned back down, and he asked, "What's your favorite movie?"
I involuntarily laughed out loud.
"Um," I sad. "Probably, uh, Rick & Morty." He had no reaction to that. He probably hadn't heard of it. It wasn't a movie, nor a kid's show.
"It's really funny," I added. "Do you like Elsa and...and Avengers?"
He nodded. "I watch Frozen every day."
"Cool, I love Elsa's songs! She's such a good singer." I hadn't actually seen the movie but decided to leave that detail out.
"My friend in my class at recess, she said, 'Do you want to build a snowman?' and I said, 'Come on, let's go and play.'"
"Did you sing the whole song with her?"
"No," he laughed out loud. "Singing is not allowed at this school!" he said in a stern voice, mimkicking a reference I hadn't seen.
"That's unfortunate." He smiled and punched me on my bandaged wrist.
"Do you like scary movies?" he asked. "Mom and Chance said I can't watch them, but I do."
"Do you like ghosts?" I said enthusiastically before suddenly remembering where I was. Maybe not the best place for this line of discussion.
"Yeah," he said. "And monsters that like to kill people." He spread his arms and hugged me around the waist.
"Remember where we are, little man," I whispered to him. "Let's talk about this later.
He looked at me confused.
"This is my dad's funeral," I forced out, admitting it to myself as much as I was reminding him.
"I forgot," he said. He looked sad. "Did you live with him?"
"Yeah." I felt myelf starting to tear up again. Liam held up his arms. This time, I got down on my knees and hugged him for a long time.
"Thank you for your condolences," said a voice I knew too well, talking to my mother. They shook hands.
"I'm here to support my son."
"Mother of the year," said Veya. Please go away, I willed her.
"I've won more awards than you ever will."
"I'm going to go visit Pa," I announced to them while stepping in between their dispute. The crowd around us had died down, but nobody seemed to notice us.
"Be quick," said Veya, glancing at her watch. "We're closing visitation in fifteen minutes."
"I will," I said. Veya seemed to soften toward me somewhat. "We're having ribs tonight. Tremon's recipe. Hailey and Cassie will be there. You're...if you're not going home with your mother tonight, it'd be nice to have a family meal together. It will always be your home too."
I braced myself for my mom's sarcastic retort, but it never came. She'd texted me that we were leaving at noon tomorrow. When I got up this morning, I was prepared to sleep on a cold park bench or wherever I had to in order to avoid staying another night in that house. But now, I wasn't sure. My mom was looking at me, possibly to test my loyalty. No, I shouldn't be that cyncial based on how she was when I was nine years old.
"Well..." I began. I could see them one last time and then never again. Would that be the right thing to do, or to just cut things off?
"Your hand is bleeding!" cried Liam. My right wrist was throbbing, and a small river of blood was running down the pale underside of my hand. A drip fell onto the carpet from my middle finger.
"That's..." I started, and then held it up and hurried to the bathroom. I imagined I'd see a horrow show with a pool of blood gushing from my wrist, but it was just one end of the slice that had scratched and reopened, making a blood stain on the inside of my dress shirt sleeve. The cut looked like it'd reclosed on its own, but the bandage was ruined. I ripped off, throwing it in the garbage, and wrapped my arm up with toilet paper.
When I left the bathroom, Veya was there. She immediately pushed past me and dug through the garbage for the bandage.
"Well," she said dramatically. "Are you cutting yourself?" She phrased it in her snotty, elitist tone like she had found me doing meth with a hooker.
"No!" I yelled at her. She grabbed my sleeve and pulled it back revealing my toilet paper bandage, and then checked the other arm for nonexistant scars in front of onlookers.
"Are there more on your thighs?" She grabbed my trousers like she was about to strip me in front of everyone.
"No, mind your own business!" I shoved her back. I couldn't keep the tears back this time and started sobbing in front of her, exactly what she wanted.
"Fucking bitch," said my mom. She turned to me. "You don't have to listen to her anymore."
"Get the fuck out of here," said Veya. "Come to the funeral of a man you wanted dead and be a cunt to his grieving family. Great example for the kids. Get out that door now. I'm this close to calling the cops."
"Please leave us alone, Veya." I pleaded as I sobbed uncontrollably, caught my breath, and said, "I'm not going back home with you ever again."
Liam came up and hugged me around the waist. I put my damp left hand down, and he held it with both of his hands.
Veya was speechless. "Well then, excuse me for caring about my step-son! Everyone knows how great of a mom you have after 5 years of no contact!" She stomped off.
I brushed past my mother and went out the front door to sit on a bench at the bus stop. I didn't even bring my coat out and felt the sting of the bitter cold on my face. My mom came up behind me bundled up with a scarf in front of her face, and Liam was holding her hand wearing a red ski mask.
"Go back inside," she said.
"I missed visitation," I didn't look up at her.
"Yep. The service has started. Go watch the rest of it. You can take the bus to our motel after the burial."
I just shook my head.
"Your father only passes away once. Don't let his bitch take that away from you."
"He's dead. There's nothing left to take away."
Liam put his gloved hands on my knees. I leaned forward and hugged him.
"Let's watch a movie tonight," he said.
"Not tonight," said Mom. "We have things to do."
"Tre, I'm not going to force you to watch his funeral. But at least go get your fucking coat." She pulled me up. I nodded.
"I'll go with him," said Liam.
"No, you're getting on the next bus with me."
"We'll be quick. I promise."
I led him back into the funeral home. She didn't object.
My face and hands stung as they started to warm back up. I grabbed my coat from the rack and put it on, then went to the bathroom one last time to dry my eyes.
Liam went in with me and just leaned against me while I quickly dried my eyes in the mirror. "Do you have to go?" he said.
I shook my head no.
"I do. Kind of."
I sswallowed hard to clear my throat. "Number one or two?" I wasn't sure to ask if he was potty trained. I remember that I was myself before entering school.
"Two."
"Can you hold it for a while?"
"I think so."
"Mom needs us to hurry to catch the bus." I didn't know how long the bus ride would be or what other stops they had to make to get to their motel. I pulled out my phone and texted my mom that Liam needed to poop.
"Hold it. The bus is pulling up." she responded.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"I don't have to go that bad." He opened the door.
"I'll help you find another potty as soon as possible, okay?"
"Okay." He held my hand, and we walked out to the bus.
I back looked at the door leading into the funeral service and could hear organ music playing behind it. I was never religious but knew my pa was. Would he be upset at what I was doing? I was overcome with guilt and wanted to dash into that door, sit down, and beg God for forgiveness, to sing with the rest of his friends I'd never spoken to. But at my hand was a long lost baby brother I never met before, one who had already opened his heart to me and accepted me without judgment, and who I'd promised to get to the bus, find a potty, and watch a scary movie with. "Little man," I said to him as we walked down the sidewalk to the bus hand-in-hand. I was about to follow that up with something overly dramatic like, "I'll never turn my back on you!" But, mainly for lack of words, I settled with, "I love you."
He squeaked, "I love you too, Clay."
"Tre."
"That's what I meant."
We stepped onto the bus and made our way to the back where our mom was seated.