I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2) (12 page)

I figure if I put flyers up in the church, there’s a better likelihood I’ll end up with a steady, reliable tenant. The apartment is such a great little space and I’d like to get someone in there who appreciates it, not someone who might fuck it up all to hell. I’ve heard horror stories of nightmare tenants and I certainly don’t want to take a chance by posting flyers just anywhere. I worked too hard to make the place nice, I intend for it to stay that way.

In the month or so I lived there, back when I was twenty, I made a lot of improvements. I updated the kitchenette by installing all new appliances. Though, to be honest, those improvements were at my grandmother’s insistence. Kitchens were very important to her. Me? Not so much. But once I got started on fixing things up, I decided I might as well make the whole place nice. So I constructed and put in wood beams all along the sloped ceiling, in between skylights my dad installed years ago. I painted the place too, laid all new carpeting, and fixed a bunch of small things.

The work kept me busy. At the time, I was hoping it would also keep me away from the drugs that were starting to consume my life. No such luck there. I still recall being high as fuck the day Tate helped me carry a couch over from the main house. We were already lit, but we smoked another bowl once the couch was in place and we were setting up the TV. Another night, I went to a party at Kyle’s and ended up snorting a shitload of coke. When I finally got home, sometime the next day, I was so restless and wired that I spent hours and hours refinishing an antique iron bed that I found down in the unused garage portion of the building.

I shake my head thinking of how out of control I used to be, how my burgeoning addiction ruled my life back then. Thank God I didn’t fall back into that trap and succumb to cocaine’s siren call last night.

Father’s brow is crinkled as he watches me. “Is everything all right, Chase?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say quickly, too quickly. “I was just thinking about the apartment.”
Oh, and all the drugs I used to do.

“Well,” Father says, standing up, “I don’t mind if you put up flyers. You can even ask Kay to run off some copies for you, if you want. I’m sure she won’t mind. Did she tell you she’ll be working at the church office all summer?”

“Yeah, she did.” I nod as I answer, and then we basically wrap things up.

When I go back out to the parking lot, I open the door to my truck, but I don’t get in right away. Instead, my eyes wander to the area behind the church, to the cemetery, where the iron gate that marks the entrance is barely visible now that all the summer growth has filled in.

I still can’t get over the story Father Maridale just told me, Kay losing her sister in such a tragic manner. And her sister was so young. I can’t even imagine walking in Kay’s shoes, handling a tragedy of that magnitude. I think back to when my own sibling was six. Will was the sweetest kid back then, always trying to be a big boy, always wanting to be like me.

It’s hard to believe, but once upon a time I was a really good role model, courteous and kind, a nice kid. I got excellent grades, drew crazy-cool pictures that everyone loved, and excelled in an array of sports. No surprise Will wanted to do everything I did back then. Sadly, it didn’t always work out so well for him, at least not at first, and definitely never in athletics.

My brother was persistent and determined, though. With a lot of studying and hard work, he started to pull down some decent grades. The drawing thing he always had in spades, so he was okay there. My brother has natural ability, just like me. But his art has always been different than mine. Whereas I can recreate anything in real life—people, objects, places—my brother’s talent lies in graphics. Like comic book-type drawings, cartoons, caricatures. So, with art he was cool, but when I think of that kid and sports I have to chuckle.

I was good at everything athletic, but Will, not so much. Though he’s slowly coming into his own now, in those early days, my kid brother was a gangly, uncoordinated mess. There’s a nine-year age difference between us, so that may have played a part. Still, it didn’t stop Will from wanting to do everything I did, including sports.

Against my better judgment, I usually gave in. I’d lob baseballs to him in the backyard, baseballs that he’d swing at and miss. I’d shoot basketballs with him in the driveway where Dad installed a hoop. But Will would miss the basket by a mile all the time. And the kid always begged to join in when he’d see me and my friends playing football in the empty sand lot next to our house. Of course, I could never say no.

So I’d prep everyone to go easy on him ahead of time. Then, Will would come out in his little pads, and big helmet my mom always insisted he wear, and hell if he wouldn’t try his damnedest to keep up. There we’d be in the field, one of us throwing Will the football, all gentle and light. But my brother would invariably forget to put his hands up in time to catch the ball. Sometimes he’d not turn around at all, and the ball would bounce right off his back. I knew some of those hits had to hurt, but I never saw him cry. Will just remained the same kid as always, determined. He never gave up.

Stubborn and tough, that’s Will. Maybe he’s more stubborn than tough, now that I think about it. Hell, I’m still waiting for him to return even one of my calls, or reply to any of several texts I’ve recently sent him. I know I’ll probably be waiting a while longer before he finally comes around.

Until then, I’ll be content with reminding myself of the times Will liked being around me, how he loved hanging out with me and my friends. How it didn’t matter we were so much older, or that everyone knew my brother was a klutz. He still always managed to fit in.

Right from the start, my friends knew to be cool with him. Otherwise, they’d have to answer to me. But I never had to follow through with any threats; my friends accepted Will of their own volition. Little bro was funny and cool in his own unique way, and he won everyone over just by being Will. At one time or another every friend I had told me they wished they had a little brother like mine, and not a day went by that I didn’t count myself lucky that Will was in my life.

I smile at the memories, choosing to forget that I fucked things up by turning into a criminal. I want to remember the kid who adored me, the Will who trusted me not to fail him. But, like my dad, I did. Just in a different way.

But I’m still here
, I remind myself,
I can fix things.
My dad, he’s gone forever. There will be no fixing from him.

I take my phone out. What the hell, it’s worth a try. I dial Will’s cell. It goes straight to voicemail, like it always does these days. Will doesn’t want to talk to me, clearly. That thought squeezes my heart so fucking hard it hurts.

Well, fine, I can be as stubborn as that little shit. I’ll keep trying. I’ll bug him forever, if I have to. I will never give up on that kid. He’ll come around. I know he loves me somewhere deep inside. At least, I hope he does.

I shoot a final glance to the cemetery, then get in my truck. Life can change in an instant; mine sure did four years ago. Kay’s did too, as I now know. I make myself a promise before I pull away: I am not going to spend any more time beating myself up over what happened last night. It’s over and done. But I sure as fuck won’t be making the same mistake again.

In some ways it was a wake-up call, reminding me of the temptations I need to avoid—getting blown in disgusting alleys behind bars; women like Missy who are all-too-willing to do the blowing; and, for sure, blow itself.

I need to spend my time concentrating on things that are important—being a better person, mending my relationship with my brother, and doing a good job for the church.

Maybe, just maybe, if I start accomplishing these things, people like Father Maridale and Kay Stanton won’t ever regret giving me a chance.

Later that evening I’m searching the house for my old digital camera.

It has to be here somewhere
, I tell myself.

I need to find it so I can take a picture of the apartment above the garage. I want to add a photo to the flyer I’ve just done up. Sadly, my cheap cell is talk and text only, so finding the digital is a must.

I rummage through the cabinet drawers in the kitchen, scour the buffet in the dining room, and proceed upstairs. I go through all the drawers in the dressers in the bedrooms, the closets too.
Nothing, nada.
I have no luck. Time to hit the final frontier, the attic, where it’s hot and stuffy and everything smells like mothballs and dust.

Once I’m up in the stuffy space, ducking so my head doesn’t hit the low ceiling, I peel off the T-shirt I changed into after returning from church and toss it to the floor. Shit, I need a fan up here. But there’s none in sight, so I resign myself to just grin and bear the heat.

I start my search by going through some boxes marked
my old stuff
. In the first one, there are clothes of mine that no longer fit, some old sports equipment, and a few so-so sketches I drew one summer. But there’s definitely no camera. I sit back and watch dust motes dance in a stream of dying light coming in through the window and think:
What next?

Some of my grandmother’s recently boxed-up belongings are on the other side of the attic, but I have my doubts the camera will be found in any of those. Still, you never know. I rub the back of my neck, wet with sweat already, and say, “Fuck it.”

I crawl on over to where the boxes are stacked.

The first box I flip open is filled with old photo albums, yellow and worn. I have no desire to peel back the past and travel down memory lane—happy memories from a time long ago, no-fucking-thanks—so I hastily seal that box back up and push it aside roughly.

The next carton I come to contains a bunch of VHS tapes, and some record albums at the bottom. The vinyl is mostly stuff from the seventies, mixed in with a few of Gram’s old albums. The tapes are movies, all from the eighties.

Ah, my father’s stuff.

I thumb through the records, perusing titles of songs my dad once played for me on my grandmother’s old record player. That old thing still sits down in the living room, dusty and unused.

I set the records aside and start to go through the movies. These are movies we used to watch together, sometimes as a family, sometimes just me and Dad.

It suddenly hits me—hard and fast, like a punch to the gut—that my father is gone forever. His ears will never hear this music, never again. He’ll never again watch these movies. There’s no coming back from where my father has gone. He’ll never again walk through this house that, by all rights, should be his. Not mine. And it’s sad to think now how this house once knew his laughter, his good times, and his bad. Hell, this house watched my father grow, from a boy to a man. I think of how much his mother, my grandmother, loved this house. But she’s gone too. Sadly, now, this house knows only me.

I wrap my arms around myself, to keep my guts from falling out. Because, fuck, it feels like they just might. Times like these, stumbling upon reminders of all I once had, it comes back to me—how very much I miss my family, all of them. But especially the one I’ll never see again, my dad.

My eyes sting, but I blame it on sweat dripping from my brow. To distract myself, I set aside some of the vinyl to take downstairs—Led Zeppelin, vintage Aerosmith, Boston, a few more. Then, I go through the movies one by one.

Before we moved to Vegas we used to come over here to Gram’s house—Dad and I, sometimes Mom—and we’d watch this shit. When I pick up the box for
Terminator,
a flash of a seven-year-old me begging my dad to let me watch it runs through my mind. We still lived in Ohio at the time, I remember that. I also recall Mom wasn’t around that day, and Grandma Gartner was busy in the kitchen, making homemade pizza for her son and grandson. After some convincing and pleading, my dad finally said,
oh,
what the hell
.

So we watched the movie together on the couch, with Grandma Gartner shaking her head when she brought in the pizza. And I loved it, the pizza, the movie, spending time with my dad.

Mom joined us for our next movie night. When she wanted to pick the movie, though, Dad and I shared a look.

“Oh, Jack,” she said as she flipped through the videocassette boxes, “let’s all watch
Pretty in Pink
. It’s so cute.” She held a box up, one with Molly Ringwald and friends on the cover.

I rolled my eyes. “Mom, please…God, no.” That cover, the girl in pink.
Kill me now
, I thought.

Thankfully, Dad came to the rescue. He could always be counted on to be the voice of reason.

“How ‘bout we compromise, Abby?
The Breakfast Club
is good too. And I think Chase will like that one much better.” Dad paused and Mom seemed to consider. “What do you say, honey? You okay with that one instead?”

Mom gave in fairly quickly—she always did with Dad—and we ended up watching
The Breakfast Club
, as a family, all snug and cozy on the couch. What a fucking picture we must have been. Dad slipping Mom kisses when he thought I wasn’t looking, and Mom covering my ears every time Bender swore. Her efforts, though, were only halfhearted—she was well aware I’d heard her and Dad say much worse.

I’ve been up here for a while and sweat is running down my bare back. It doesn’t look like I’ll be finding the camera anytime soon. I’m hot and I’m thirsty and I’ve had enough of memory lane, so I give up the search. I tug my T-shirt back over my head and go downstairs, taking Dad’s old record albums with me.

Since I can’t find the camera I decide to go with plan number two: I’ll just sketch the apartment right on the flyer. Fuck the camera. I can probably draw the details a whole lot better than what low mega pixels will end up showing anyway.

My newest sketchbook is on the buffet in the dining room, where I’ve been keeping it lately. Under it, in the top drawer, there are an assortment of colored pencils, charcoal sticks, and oil pastels. I grab a bunch of the colored pencils and set everything out on the dining room table, including the flyer I made up earlier.