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He’s been dreading this trip.
He’s been dreading it since his parents’ divorce finalised. He’s been dreading it since he realised his dad and his bullies play by the same rulebook – beat the kid down, keep the kid down, get rid of any witnesses.
He’s been dreading it extra hard since he took his fists and drove them into the face of the one person who actually stood a chance of helping him dread it less. Since he broke Mike Wheelers nose.
Will stares at the empty kitchen, devoid of all life. There’s no report cards on the fridge, no dishes in the sink. The table has four wooden chairs that have never seen people, and surfaces covered in dust from lack of use. The only sign that anyone even lives here is the array of alcohol gathered by the fridge and the post it note tacked up next to the phone that reads “Call Laurie.”
Will runs his fingers along the digits on the note, wondering what would happen if he were to call Laurie.
“Dad?” Jonathan calls down the corridor. “Lonnie?”
He shrugs and turns to Will. “Looks like he’s not here.”
Will nods absently, letting his hand drop and instead peering into the vacant lounge. There’s one couch, cushions sagging noticeably on one side, and a battered TV set. Nothing else. No pictures on the wall, or books or Lego scattered across the floor.
Jonathan is rooting through the cupboards, which also seem mostly empty. The fridge is semi-well stocked, by some miracle. Will plucks out a carton of milk and sniffs it. It smells fine.
“This place is a dump,” Jonathan says, voice full of venom. It’s not really true. The place itself is fine, relatively clean and everything in it seems brand new, like Lonnie has only just taken the plastic off. It’s the dark shadow of their father’s presence, however, that makes the whole place feel eerie. Almost haunted. “Can’t believe we have to stay here all weekend.”
Jonathan sighs, then turns to Will and claps his hands. It’s odd, like seeing someone who’s been sentenced to death trying to be cheery. Will tries to smile, but all he feels is this numb sadness. It’s like he’s rotting at the core. He just wants to crawl into bed and never come out.
“What do you wanna do, buddy?” Jonathan asks with faux-happiness. Will just shrugs. His hands are still stinging, so he clasps them together.
They end up squashed together on the sofa, Will tucked in on himself, Jonathan half-hanging off the arm. They’re watching some boring cop show, but neither of them are really paying attention. Jonathan keeps nodding off, lulling over the arm of the sofa. Will is wide awake, pretending he’s focusing on the show, but all he keeps seeing is Mike.
Mikes face, specifically, and the way it looked covered in the blood that was streaming from his nose. Will reckons he must have broken it on the third or fourth hit, the way the blood was spurting over the shiny white floor of the school hallway. He must’ve got a good five or six hits in before Lucas had managed to wrap his arms around his waist and haul him off. He’s not sure what he would’ve done if Lucas hadn’t pulled him off. Kept hitting Mike maybe? Would he have stopped? Would he have just kept going until his best friend’s face had turned to mush?
Will is so caught up in his own head, he barely even notices the front door open until the light from the kitchen partially floods into the lounge. Will freezes, glancing towards Jonathan who is blissfully sleeping, mouth hanging open.
Lonnie is muttering to himself under his breath as he tugs off his boots, letting them fall to the ground with a clatter. Will screws his eyes shut and forces his hitching breath to even out. There’s the sound of Lonnie pouring himself a drink, glass bottles clinking together, and then his father is in the doorway, peering down at the two sleeping figures. Will can hear his own shaky breath in his ears, the cop show still crackling loudly.
He lets out a louder breath when he hears Lonnie retreating down the corridor and the sound of his bedroom door closing.
Lonnie is gone again when they wake up the next morning. The house is considerably colder than home and Will finds himself pulling on several of his jumpers, one over the top of the other.
The only trace of their father left in the whole place is a dirty mug in the sink and a note tacked to the fridge. Its brief – “be back at six. make dinner” – and it makes Jonathan bristle.
“What does he think we are,” he says, already rinsing the mug out under a trickling stream of water. “We’re here for a visit, not to be his servants for the week.”
Will shrugs, reaching for a dish cloth and taking the mug out his brothers hands. He prefers the house without Lonnie in it. He prefers the visit without Lonnie here at all.
There’s nothing in the cupboard. Not enough for a meal, anyway, so they end up making the mile round trip to the supermarket on foot. When they’re there, Jonathan tells Will to stock up on non-perishables and cleaning supplies. Will complies, gathering two bags full whilst Jonathan gets the fresh stuff. On the walk home the bag strings cut into his hands, leaving angry red lines amongst the scabs and bruises.
It’s the first time he’s been out of the house properly since the fight. He’d been too scared, back at home, that he’d run into his friends, Mike, anyone who knew what he’d done. Two towns over and the pressure has alleviated. No one here knows him. People are scarce here. Its quiet. Will likes it.
When the get back Will unloads the cans and tins into one of the cupboards while Jonathan stacks the fridge. It looks odd – Lonnie’s fridge, stacked full of vegetables and yogurts and lunch meats. It looks like a proper person fridge.
“I can’t believe he isn’t even bothered enough to see us,” Jonathan says, unscrewing the fresh bottle of bleach and tipping it into the peeling sink. “He fought mom for visitation and then just vanishes.”
“He has to work,” Will says timidly, falling silent when Jonathan rolls his eyes. He doesn’t mention seeing Lonnie yesterday, however briefly. His brother would just find something to be mad about there too.
“He doesn’t work. He drinks,” Jonathan shoots back. “God, I hate him.”
He sets the bleach down suddenly, instead reaching for the dodgy looking radio set on the window ledge.
“There’s gotta be something half decent on here,” he mutters, fiddling with the dials until the sound of Modern Love fills the air. “Ah ha!”
Will laughs, which just makes Jonathan crank the volume higher. It’s not long until the two of them are dancing around the kitchen, scrubbing the surfaces clean and clearing cobwebs from the cupboards. Will doesn’t point out that they’re cleaning the kitchen of a man that Jonathan supposedly help. Instead he shuts up and tries hard to be happy.
He does try. He tries really really hard.
By six the kitchen is spotlessly clean, each surface rubbed raw, each cupboard debugged and deloused. Will has set three places at the rickety wooden table, with placemats and everything. He had to dig them out of the airing cupboard at the end of the hall where they had been buried. They’re the same placemats they used to use at christmas. He didn’t know his dad took them.
Jonathan has made meatloaf and green beans, which sit stewing on the set table. He’s pacing by the door, eyes glued to it like their father will make it past them unnoticed if he doesn’t keep careful watch of it.
Six comes and goes. Six twenty, six forty, seven.
They hear his truck first. At about seven fifty they hear the sound of the truck engine revving up the gravel drive. Jonathan’s face gets cloudier when he hears it, folding his arms across his chest. Will shrinks down in his seat. He’s been dreading this moment all day. He’s been dreading seeing his father again.
Lonnie is scarier in daylight, Will decides. He’s not a scary man physically. He’s too thin, almost gaunt looking, like a strong gust of wind come knock him over. But there’s something wolfish in his features. Like he could your throat with his teeth.
He barely regards Jonathan as he enters. Instead he heads straight for the small cabinet by the hallway. He’s fixing himself a drink. It only takes him seconds, he’s practised enough, a real pro. He takes a sip, then a gulp. He peels his jacket off and throws it on the cabinet.
Lonnie lumbers over to the table, footsteps heavy against the creaky wooden floor. Before he sits he unbuckles his belt and sets it down on the table with a heavy clunk. Will flinches at the sight of it, staring down at his lap instead. He knows why the belt is there. It’s to keep them in line.
Lonnie hasn’t used the belt on either of them in years. The sight still scares Will though.
“Nice of you to join us,” Jonathan snarks. He drops the cold, soggy meatloaf onto the table. “Dinners been ready for over an hour.”
Lonnie leans back in his chair, looking Jonathan up and down. “God, you sound like your mother.”
Jonathan’s jaw clenches at the comment but he says nothing. He angrily picks up the carving knife and stabs into the meatloaf, heaping a pile onto a plate and passing it to Will. Lonnie just watches him, silent and smirking.
“There’s green beans on the table buddy,” Jonathan says quietly, jerking his head towards the pan. “Help yourself.”
Will nods stiffly and begins to heap the vegetables onto his plate. The spoon is smooth and cold is his hand. He can feel his father’s eyes burning into him but he keeps his gaze fixed down. Jonathan passes a plate to Lonnie, who takes it. He puts it down untouched and picks up the glass of scotch beside him instead.
Jonathan slides into the empty seat next to Will with his own plate. He spears a green bean into his mouth, nudging Will when he doesn’t pick up his own cutlery. Will picks it up automatically and pushes the food around his plate with his fork. It’s cold and unappealing, but the thought of eating anything recently has made his stomach turn over.
“Jesus Christ,” Lonnie says suddenly. Will and Jonathan freeze. “What the hell happened to your hands?”
Will looks down at his bruised knuckles. He drops his cutlery and shoves his hands into his lap. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit,” Lonnie says, pushing his chair back with a squeak. He rounds the table, towering over Will.
Jonathan jumps to his feet, stepping in between Will and Lonnie. He’s not much shorter than their father, not anymore. He’s probably stronger too, despite how scrawny he looks. Lonnie is stick thin and wiry. “Can’t we just eat?”
Lonnie puts his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder and pushes him away. Will expects Jonathan to fight back but he relents, scowling. Lonnie grabs Will’s hand from his lap and pulls it up into the dim light of the kitchen. “Did you get into a fight?”
Will says nothing. Lonnie presses his fingernails against one of the bruises until he squeaks in pain.
“So you can speak,” he mocks drily. “You gonna answer your father or what?”
Will shakes his head, confused, then nods hurriedly. He opens his mouth to answer but all that comes out is a cracked whisper. “I didn’t-”
“He didn’t get in a fight,” Jonathan interrupts, staring down at Will with pleading eyes. “He was just defending himself, right Will?”
He nods, even though it’s a lie. Lonnie isn’t even listening, too busy looking over the scrapes on Will’s busted hand.
“Must’ve done a lot of damage,” he muses quietly to himself. “You get suspended?”
“Yeah,” Will whispers.
“Just for a week,” Jonathan adds.
Lonnie whistles lowly. It’s a whistle Will recognises from car showrooms and baseball games. It’s an impressed whistle. Something stirs in Will’s gut, similar to pride, but he forces it down. Lonnie drops his hand and instead grabs Will by the chin, roughly jerking his head up. “And not a mark on you! I’m impressed.”
Will squirms away from his grips. Jonathan shoves their father by his shoulders and he stumbles back a few steps, grinning cockily.
“Just leave him alone, will you?” Jonathan snaps. The room goes silent. Will feels like all the air has been sucked out of it, out of his body.
Lonnie wipes at his face with the back of his hand, still grinning to himself. “Was just saying I was impressed. Didn’t know the little queer had it in him.”
In a flash Jonathan has Lonnie by his shirt collar and is driving him into the wall. He hits it with a sickening crack. Jonathan drags him out a little just to push him into it again, this time the phone on the wall clattering to the floor.
Lonnie, breathless, just laughs. “Look at you. All big and tough.”
Jonathans face is set in stone, his grip unrelenting, pinning Lonnie against the wall. Will just watches, horrified.
“You never would’ve known how to fight without me,” Lonnie spits. “Neither of you.”
Will realises, numbly, that his father is staring straight at him. He has the overwhelming desire to run straight out the door and all the way home.
“I told your mother there was something odd about you,” Lonnie whispers, eyes boring into Will. “The day she brought you home from the hospital. I saw it in your eyes.”
Will blinks back, terrified. He’s seen his father drunks before but never like this. He hides his violently shaking hands.
“Don’t talk to him,” Jonathan says quietly. “Don’t even look at him.”
Lonnie holds his hands up in mock surrender, looking back at Jonathan instead. “Alright. There’s plenty I can say about you too, Johnny boy. Seventeen, no college, no girl, running around after your looney mother. You’re a big screw up than he is.”
Jonathan just laughs. His face is dangerously close to Lonnie’s, and Will can see his hands are steady, holding the older man in place. “I wonder where I got it from.”
Jonathan releases his grasp and Lonnie’s body sags. He straightens his shirt. The room is quiet and stagnant.
“Whouda thought,” he shakes his head to himself, a dead grin on his face. “Both of my sons. Fuck ups.”
He laughs hollowly before slinking down the corridor. They hear a door slam at the other end of the house slam close and then silence.
Jonathan exhales shakily, like all the strength is leaving his body. He turns to Will, crouching down in front of him. “You okay?”
Will realises he’s crying when he feels a stray tear splash onto his bruised hand.
“We can go home, bud. Do you want to go home?”
Will shakes his head erratically, trying not to sniff too loudly, trying to quiet his cries. He’s scared, even through a closed door, that Lonnie will hear him crying and come back. His belt is still sat on the table, metal buckle glinting menacingly.
“I can call mom and she’ll come get us,” Jonathan says, but he sounds unsure. “I know she’s working, but she’ll figure something out for us.”
Will just cries harder, bending his head into his hands. Jonathan reaches up and wraps his arms around Will’s shoulders, pulling him off the chair and into his lap. It’s awkward, clumsy, but Will buries his face in his brother’s shoulder. This is the smallest he’s felt in a long time – even after the bullies, and the fight, and the suspension. This is maybe the smallest he’s ever felt.
“Maybe we could call someone else,” Jonathan says quietly, mostly to himself. “Someone has to come get us. Maybe moms boss, or Mrs Wheeler-”
The thought of Mike makes Will cry more and Jonathan gives up his babbling to just rock his brothers back and forth, crouched on the uncomfortable linoleum floor.
Later, when Jonathan has given up on the idea of leaving and their father has started to snore loudly, Will curls up in his narrow twin bed. The crying has tapered, leaving him with this quiet, empty sadness that settles over him like a blanket.
There’s another bed for Jonathan at the other side of the room, but instead his brother stands over Will’s bed and gently nudges him with his knee until Will shuffles closer to the wall. It’s not the first time they’ve shared a bad but it’s the first in a while. Jonathan has to shift until they’re both comfortably under the covers, their legs tangle together under the sheets.
The room is silent, punctuated only by the occasional snores from Lonnie next door. Will feels drained. He tries to roll to face the wall by Jonathan stops him with a quiet whisper.
“I should’ve killed him.” Jonathans voice shakes slightly with the words. “I should’ve put that knife right through his skull. Said he fell. Said it was an accident. I should’ve done it.”
Will frowns through the darkness. “Jonathan-”
“He would’ve been dead by now. The police would be here. He would be dead and he wouldn’t be hurting anyone anymore and no one would miss him. No one would miss him”
It falls silent. Jonathan rolls over to face Will, features barely visible in the darkness. Will can see his corneas, shining with anger.
He looks just like dad, Will thinks absently. He pushes the thought far, far down.
“Then we’d never have to come here,” Jonathan whispers solemnly. Will swallows the lump in his throat. “And he’d never say those things about you ever again.”
Will says nothing. He doesn’t want to know what Jonathan thinks those things mean. Why he beat on his best friend. He just wants to go to sleep and forget, however briefly, that he even exists.
He rolls over carefully in the tiny twin bed and this time Jonathans voice doesn’t stop him.
When he wakes the next morning Jonathan has gone and the soft yellow light of spring is coating the room through the gap in the blinds. Will groans and rubs his hand over his face, noticing the bruises. He’s filled again with a mixture of guilt and blinding self-hatred that makes his stomach turn. He scrambles out of bed and to the bathroom.
Bent over the stomach, turning up cold green beans, he can hear voices down the corridor. He wipes his mouth with his pyjama sleeve and pushes the door open a crack.
In the kitchen he can see Jonathan fully dressed and scowling. He’s standing by the front door. By his feet sits both his and Will’s overnight bags, already packed.
“You don’t get to talk to your sons like that! Actually, no, you don’t get to talk to my sons like that!”
Will could weep with relief. His mom, in her crumpled work uniform, is waving her arms around frantically as she speaks, voice tight with anger. Will can’t see his father, but he can picture him. Probably drunk already, half dressed and rolling his eyes. The thought makes Will’s stomach turn again.
“What, they’re not my kids anymore? You should check that custody agreement again, Joyce. Split custody. They’re as much my kids as yours.”
“When Jonathan calls me to tell me you’ve been calling them fuck ups, been calling Will… No they’re not!”
“If Johnny has a problem he can talk to me like a man, instead of running to his mommy.”
“He’s not a man, he’s a child!”
“He’s seventeen Joyce. He’s old enough to die for his country, he’s old enough to stop behaving like a little bitch-”
“I’ll tell you to your face-”
“Jonathan. Go get Will. We’re leaving.”
Will starts at his name. He goes to the sink and quickly scrubs at his face with the cold water until he feels slightly awake, then yanks the door open and creeps down the corridor.
Everyone starts when Will appears. Jonathan hasn’t moved from the door, but he straightens up at the sight of his brother. His eyes burn into Will’s skin, but Will ignores him.
“Will, baby,” his mom rushes to his side and envelopes him into a hug. Will doesn’t react, watching over her shoulder as Lonnie rolls his eyes. His skin is a dull grey colour, and his hands seem to shake as he raises the glass in his hand to his lips.
Joyce pulls back and cups Will’s face with her hands. She pushes his hair aside and runs her fingers gently down the side of his cheek. Will knows what she’s doing. She’s looking for any fresh wounds. He doesn’t push her away, just waits until she quirks her lips into a small smile and lets him go. “You ready to go home?”
“I’m still in my pyjamas,” he whispers back mournfully.
Joyce shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter. We don’t need to get dressed today. We can have a pyjama day.”
She waits until Will nods, then ushers him towards the door. Jonathan slings one of the bags over his shoulder and picks up the other. He smiles down at Will sadly. “Come on,” he says to Will, then looks up at Joyce. “We’ll wait in the car.”
She nods vacantly. Her eyes are still on Lonnie, who is pouring himself another drink and scrubbing the stubble on his chin with his free hand.
Jonathan ushers Will out the house and to the car. He climbs in the backseat with Will, despite the empty passenger seat.
It doesn’t take long for Joyce to appear. She leaves the door wide open on its hinges as she storms down the porch. She starts the car up silently, looking back only to glance out the rear-view window.
“Mom,” Jonathan tries. She doesn’t answer him, shoulders tense, tearing down the driveway.
Will watches Lonnie stood in the open doorway, glass of whiskey in hand, robe hanging off one bony shoulder, grey skin fading into the dim, drizzly morning.