Spider Webs - 10. Chapter 10: Patrick

 

 

The music playing on the radio died abruptly as Patrick killed the car, the air filling with a tense silence broken by the sounds of our heavy breathing…because we’d been making out like a couple of sex-crazed bunnies.

No, just kidding. But thoughts of Patrick naked and wet were flashing through my mind. A lot. This probably explained why I wasn’t looking at him, but instead at the run-down wooden house that was, in my opinion, just as large as the Windletons, though in a far sadder state of disrepair. Plants swallowed the front porch, swathing the house in an odd assortment of color that was strangely appealing to me.

A barn stood off to the side of the house, its wooden doors sitting open and revealing a floor strewn haphazardly with hay, much like the lawn was strewn with a coloring of fall leaves. Leaves that were broken by a wild-haired old man who was wielding a lawnmower like it was a weapon, the thought coming suddenly because of the pissed-off look on the old man’s face when he shot a particularly nasty look at the car.

“Your dad looks pissed,” I remarked, feeling myself gloat slightly at the thought of Patrick being in trouble. Probably because of all the trouble he’d been causing me lately.

“He’s not my dad.” Patrick opened his door and got out, slamming it shut before I could retort back.

Whatever.

Then I got annoyed because I found myself getting out of the car and following him. I arrived at Patrick’s side just as the old man who wasn’t Patrick’s dad shut the lawnmower off.

“Rydych yn dod drafferth i fy nhŷ?” the old man stated. My gaze drifted around the yard while I inadvertently cocked my head, attempting to decipher the strange language.

“Nid fy mai i. Dilynodd fi gartref fel ci bach goll,” Patrick stated. A shiver wracked my spine when he spoke.

The old man snorted.

“Rydych wedi tasgau i'w gwneud,” the old man said just as the front door opened, revealing a woman with equally white hair. The only difference was hers was well-kept. She also happened to be wringing her hands in an apron as she gazed apprehensively at us.

“Rwy'n gwybod. Dywedais wrthych byddwn i'n ei wneud pan gefais yn ôl,” Patrick murmured, “Roedd rhaid i mi agor y bwyty ar gyfer Bran y bore yma.”

“Again?” The old woman suddenly asked, not sounding happy even as she shot me a smile. I decided instantly that I liked her, probably because she was speaking in English.

“Ydw, nain,” Patrick replied. I decided I hated him even more then I already did, annoyed because he was not including me in the conversation. I rolled my eyes at him at the same time as the woman did, which made me smile in amusement, amusement that was reflected in her eyes, setting me at ease.

“Wel, rydych yn gartref erbyn hyn. Cael eich tasgau ei wneud, Patrick,” the old man said, giving me a strange look as he did so.

“Oh honey, surely...”

“Mae’n iawn, nain,” Patrick murmured. That’s when I realized for the first time that his entire body was stiff, standing at attention. He also wasn’t looking the old man in the eye. Like he was scared of the old man, or something. I studied him as much as I could, but I had realized something was off too late, because Patrick was leaving. A gesture I took to be meant for me had me following him into a house that smelled of herbs and food, diapers and dogs; a house filled with the sounds of children.

Lots and lots of children. At least ten of them, all ranging in age from newbornsto maybe twelve or thirteen. That wasn’t all, either. There were men and women, too. Ranging from my age to perhaps thirties or forties. It was like I had stumbled into a Mormon compound.

Only, no one was praying. Heck, it sounded like one guy was swearing under his breath as he waltzed around the room with a baby on his hip. A hand grasped my wrist, distracting me from observing what was going on in the living room.

“So what was all that about?” I asked as Patrick, still holdong onto my wrist led us to a second floor and past several doors.

“Nothing, much. My grandpa seems to think you’re trouble,” he replied.

I frowned at him. “Me?” I asked indignantly. “You’re the one that lied to a judge,” I reminded him.

Patrick grinned. “He meant it more as he seems to think you’re going to get me into trouble, not that you yourself are actually trouble,” he replied. We came to another door and he led the way up another flight of stairs and into the attic.

An attic with several beds, the only privacy offered to their occupants that of several sheets strung between each bed. Sheets that had to be carefully navigated, I soon discovered, or one was liable to wrap the clothesline they hung from around one’s neck.

I swallowed when we got to a corner of the attic, the sun shining brightly through a window and onto his bed; a large knife lay in a leather sheath next to a book with a pentagram on the cover.

Everything made sense now. Yup, Patrick was trying to kill me. He had lied to a judge and made me stay with the Windletons so he could use me as a religious sacrifice for the strange cult that he was obviously a member of.

Patrick sat on his bed. When I finally looked away from the weapon that was probably going to be used to sacrifice me to whatever occult deity they worshipped, I was startled to realize his cheeks were red. Like...really red. He was, I realized, blushing. And it was kind of cute.

“So...Uh...sorry, that was­­­—”

“So you’re part of a cult?” I interrupted, picking up the knife sitting next to him, “Cause I gotta warn you, I don’t do religion—and there’s no way in hell I’m joining in on your orgy-infested ceremonies,” I informed him.

He was giving me a look. I didn’t look back at him, just decided to plow ahead with what I was thinking.

“So, is that why you did it?” I asked, finally deigning to look at him. He was staring at me like I had horns growing out of my head. I looked away and put the knife down.

“I mean, it makes sense...I think.” Well, it did. I couldn’t think of any other reason for him to lie to a judge.

“Micah...” I looked up when Patrick said my name, realizing that I must have embarrassed him because he was shoving the knife and the book under his pillow. Out of sight out of mind, I guess.

“Hmm?” I hummed my question at him, waiting impatiently for a response.

“You’re an idiot, and I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he told me. Only now he was glaring at me; his cheeks weren’t flushed in embarrasment, I realized, but in anger. Good. I figured it was only fair that I finally got to piss him off for everything he’d done to me lately.

“Your cult. It’s the reason you lied to the judge, right?” I asked, still baiting. “I mean, you guys must...” a hand covering my mouth had me shutting up, and before I knew it Patrick was in my face, still glaring at me.

“You should probably shut up now, ‘cause if you continue that line of thought I’m going to stab you,” he hissed at me. Yeesh, someone was testy.

I smirked, feeling triumphant because I was getting a rise out of him. I was also going to get answers from him. He just didn’t know it yet. I licked his hand, watching in amusement as he snatched it away like I had bitten him. He wished.

“See. Member of a cult! You’re already threatening to kill me.”.

He rolled his eyes, his face flushing even more. “We’re not a cult,” he argued back, finally obliging me with my whims.

“Okay then, who are all these people living with you?” I asked, even though I wasn’t really sure I wanted to know. If they weren’t a cult, then I was screwed, because I couldn’t think of any other reason he’d have a book on witchcraft and a giant sacrificial dagger lying on his bed.

“Patrick, is your friend staying for dinner?” a voice suddenly shouted up the stairs.

“This asshole isn’t my friend,” he shouted in reply. I glared at him. I wasn’t an asshole. He was. He stared at me with an upraised eyebrow, as if waiting for an answer. I shook my head, deciding I didn’t really want toadstools and boiled frog-legs, or whatever it was they ate. “And no Grandma, he’s not staying for dinner,” he shouted back, giving her my answer.

“They’re my family, not a cult. And we’re here for Anwen’s priodas...”

I gave him a blank stare at the strange word.

“...uh...wedding.” He responded to the look I was giving him.

Well shit. Apparently they were all related to him. But an entire family could belong to a cult, right?

“Who’s Anwen?” I asked, licking my lips at the slightly salty, sweaty taste that I could still feel on the tip of my tongue that was Patrick; visionsof him in the shower last night came back to me. Again. I couldn’t help myself, I peeked at the front of his nylon basketball shorts, swearing I could make out the lump that was his penis.

At the same time I was wondering if Anwen was his girlfriend or fiance or something. Sure, Patrick was only 16, I think...but didn’t cults marry off their children at a young age?

“She’s my modryb..uh...aunt,” he remarked. I looked up and stared at his mouth, fascinated by the accent that was becoming more distinct the longer he talked. I still wasn’t quite able to make out where he was from.

I shook my head, remembering that I was there for answers..and, more importantly, I was there to piss Patrick off for deciding to meddle with my life, not get to know him... or his family.

“Oh...you marrying her?” I asked. Only this time I didn’t manage to get the effect I wanted out of him. Rather then pissing him off he just smirked at me suddenly, like he knew something I didn’t know.

“What?” I asked, feeling very defensive and nervous all of a sudden at the look that he was giving me. It was very distracting.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead he got off his bed and before I knew what was going on, he had his back to me and was pulling his shirt off. I couldn’t help myself. I scooted back on his bed and leaned against the headboard, putting my hands up behind my head like I was surrendering to a police officer,trying to escape the uncomfortable knots in my stomach and alsoenjoy the unexpected strip show that I was getting.

He turned around, revealing his hairless torso to me as he dropped his mesh shorts. I gulped, the sound audible even to my ears as baby blue boxer-briefs revealed themselves.

“...’elp?” Patrick asked. I looked up

“Huh?” I asked, face flushing when I realized he’d still been talking while taking his clothes off.

“I said I have chores to do, do you want to help?”

It took me a moment to catch on but when I did, I shook my head at him. “No,” I said at the same time, my gaze trailing away from his face once more and down his torso, stopping at the very distinct bulge resting in his underwear. I blushed when he inadvertently scratched at the spot I was staring at.

“Too bad,” he murmured softly. And then he was sliding jeans up his long legs, eliminating the view I had in my current position. A position that, I realized, would reveal the boner I was beginning to sport. Crap! My face heated up even as I abruptly switched positions on his bed so that I was laying on my stomach but still facing him. I hid my face in his blankets, grateful that his back was once more turned toward me as he rummaged through a dresser drawer for a shirt.

I closed my eyes, trying to will my boner away to no avail. I needed to come up with...

“I’m gonna stay here and nap,” I informed him, eyes still closed. “But first I think you should tell me why you lied to that judge...though I still think you’re part of some cult that you wanted me to join.”

“Wicca is not a cult,” Patrick rebutted immediately. “It’s a religion, same as any other. With the belief in nature and two Gods, well, a God and a Goddess, and...it’s hard to explain...”

I nodded while opening an eye to peer at him, still trying my best to piss him off. “Uh-huh,” I stated in as disbelieving a manner as possible.

He rolled his eyes at me, then changed the subject. “You really got into my car just to come over here and take a nap?” he asked.

My head dropped back onto his bed; inhaling I caught a strong scent that I could only think to describe as Patrick-on-a-blanket. “No,” I stated, “I got into your car to find out why you lied to that judge, an issue you keep avoiding, and I don’t get it. Did I murder your favorite toad or something? Cause I gotta tell you, lying to that judge just to make me stay with that insufferable jackass and his family...”

“Reese isn’t a jackass,” he interrupted. I harrumphed.

“I wasn’t talking about Reese, I was talking about Ken,” I told him.

“...oh...he grows on you.” I rolled my eyes. He said this like it was a fact, and...I sighed.

“You’re still avoiding the topic.” He shot me a smile, like Chesire the Cat might have had he caught Tweety Bird. I let out a groan. Seriously, why couldn’t he stop dancing around the issue and just tell me why he did it?

“I can’t tell you why I did what I did,” he said, his voice soft. I looked up and realized that he was genuinely thinking about it.

“Why not?” I asked, ready to admit I was desperate for an answer. “I mean, I don’t think I did anything to deserve this.”

“Because...perhaps you’re right,” he remarked suddenly. “Perhaps you didn’t do anything to deserve this. But, who says I did this for you?” he asked.

Huh? I was seriously confused now. He shot me a smile that I think was meant to be triumphant or something. He only ended up looking kind of creepy. I groaned and dropped my head back onto his bed, closing my eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sorry, gotta go do chores,” he said.

Another sigh escaped my mouth. I pulled at his blanket until part of it was covering my head. “Fine. Have fun,” I mumbled, deciding that a nap was indeed in order.

The bed sloped as Patrick knelt on the mattress next to me and poked my shoulder. I opened an eye and peeked at him, wondering what he wanted, annoyed because he wouldn’t give me a straight answer.

“You’re seriously going to take a nap?” he asked me again, giving me a look of disbelief.

“Yes, and it’s your fault that I need one,” I told him, closing my eyes again.

“How’s it my fault that you need a nap? You were sound asleep when I woke up in your bed...and why were we naked?”

I blushed; my lips stretched into a smirk.

But I didn’t answer his question about why we were nude. “Because Ken woke me up at six a.m. and dragged me to an AA meeting,” I informed him

A moment of silence. “Why would Ken do that?” he asked.

“Oh...I don’t know...perhaps it’s because he’s a jackass...or he caught me coming in last night reeking of booze after I carried your drunk-ass upstairs with Reese and Joel. Now go away and...uh...,” I yawned in the middle of my demand, “let me sleep.”

“Oh...uhm...sorry,” Patrick mumbled. I guess making him feel like an idiot had its perks.

Silence was the only reply I got. I didn’t care, and apparently Patrick had nothing else to say because after sitting there in silence I finally felt the mattress shift as he got up and made his way down the attic stairs, leaving me in silent comfort on his bed.

Silent comfort that I tried to take advantage of, to no avail.

It was with a grunt of dissatisfaction that I unrolled myself out of his blankets, inhaling through my nose one last time to catch Patrick’s scent before I stood and, with a quiet, cranky laugh started snooping through Patrick’s belongings.

The snooping left me feeling slightly disappointed. Aside from a few books on Wicca, some old jewelry in a dresser drawer, anda hand-written journal in a funny language I couldn’t understand, there was nothing to poke fun at except for his clothes. Patrick didn’t have a lot of clothes to poke through either.

But what he lacked in quantity he seemed to make up for in variety. Blue jeans that looked like they would be a tight fit, a variety of button-up long-sleeved and short-sleeved western shirts, the leather belt with its bucklethat I’d seen him wearing the first day I’d ever met him­­all looked like they would go with the cowboy boots and hat I found under his bed.

Baggy looking shorts and punk rock t-shirts looked like they would match the shoes and skateboard that looked like it had never been used. Then there was the dress shoes to match the preppy clothes; khaki pants, polos, more dress-shirts.

It was when I snooped through one of the bottom drawers of his dresser that I hit pay dirt. I found what I could only think of as a wool dress in shades of blue, black and a lavender-ish color running in stripes, the same pattern repeating. A reddragonpin sat on top. Neatly folded in a bag next to the...well, dress was all I could think to call it, I found what looked like a tuxedo jacket, a vest, and a not so neatly pressed white shirt with a bow-tie.

And that was it. The entire situation was strange to me, and I’m not just talking about the dress. That, I quickly decided, had to do with whatever country Patrick and his family were from. No, what was weird to me were the different styles of clothing that Patrick had. It was like...he had no real personality, or couldn’t decide who he was or something.

I was definitely confused, and also intrigued by the situation. Intrigued enough that I ended up going down the squeaky attic stairs to the second floor of the house, where I immediately became drawn to pictures lining the wall. Some were old, much like the Windletons had on their wall.

They were almostall, it seemed, taken in the countryside, the people they portrayed wearing formal wear in front of a stone cottage house, lambs and other livestock scattered here and there. But these pictures didn’t hold my attention long, nothing indicating where they had been taken. I moved down the line of photos until my attention was snagged by one that looked old, but not too old. It was ofa man and a woman, their dark hair neatly clipped, holding a baby girl in a dress. They looked, well, happy, and familiar. Baby photos of the same child were set in small frames surrounding that photo.

The man and woman holding that baby were the old man and woman who lived here.

And in each picture they were still smiling; the young girl I took to be their daughter appeared a little older in each one, and more and more children were added to each photo. There were a lot of children. They were the only thing that was consistent. Another lady, older than the man and his wife, were in some of the photos, holdingone child or another. Often their oldest daughter appeared front and center next to them, surrounded by children with neatly arranged black hair and fine facial features, dark eyes shining brightly in whatever light they were standing in.

They were all growing up.

Then Grandma and Grandpa weren’t smiling anymore.

It took me a while to figure out what I was seeing in this most recent photo. When I did I felt kind of dumb. The young lady had disappeared, the one I took to be their eldest daughter. Sure, the children were smiling, but the old man and his wife weren’t. Going back to the pictures before that one I could see where her face was slightly strained, her shoulders tense.

My curiosity piqued, I went back to the photo she wasn’t in, stared intently and continued on my way down the hall looking at the photos that I had already passed, stopped again at a new photo.

It was the same family, the same unsmiling couple. The same children minus their oldest daughter. But there was a new addition to the family.

A towheaded child, probably not even six months old was being held in the photo by one of the younger boys in the family, and a baby girl, probably a year old, was standing at his feet, holding her arms up like she wanted to be held.

There were no photos of this child being born surrounding this photo. The photos all continued in that line, the same towheaded boy growing older, being held by an older boy or an older girl, or standing next to them; always distant, as far away from the old man and his wife wife as he could get.

The photos continued that way as the months, years and days passed by, Patrick getting older in each one, even at the age of around eight, when the scenery changed. They were standing in front of this house, streamers coming down from the roof and into the ground. A sold sign in the background. Movers were on the front-porch, moving, well, furniture.

Patrick still wasn’t smiling.

More photos, this one with a young Reese in them, his head not even reaching Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick still wasn’t smiling. It was an odd combination, seeing a wide-eyed, gap-toothed happy Reese standing next to an obviously unhappy Patrick.

About the time Patrick was somewhere in his teens he disappeared from the photos altogether.

“Ah... Good photos, those,” someone murmured behind me. I jumped, startled, and found myself staring at the old woman, Patrick’s grandmother.

Even as my mind processed her words I turned, backtracked to the very last picture Patrick appeared in. He was standing on a bluff, looking toward a sunset with a distant look in his eyes. The frown on his face was even worse in this photo. He looked lonely.

“They don’t look...” I stopped talking, looked back at her, uncertain. She looked at me with a raised brow, nodded her head for me to continue.

“He doesn’t look happy,” I mumbled.

A sigh escaped her lips, as if the words I’d uttered had knocked the breath out of her. A soft, wrinkled hand touched the back of my neck before it moved to my shoulder.

“No, he doesn’t, does he?” she asked as she stepped closer to me, examining the picture I was looking at.

“I don’t think he looks happy in any of them,” I stated, unconsciously following her as she guided me back the way I’d come from, stopping long enough for her to examine each photo that I had just looked at.

We got to the first photo he appeared in, being held by a young man.

“His dad?” I asked.

She snorted. “No. His uncle. My son, Bryce. He was always good to Patrick. Bryce missed Patrick something terrible when Patrick went back to Cymru...” I shot her a look at the unfamiliar name. She noticed it and smiled at me. “Wales,” she explained, even as a finger reached out and stroked the photograph. “Three generations of Welsh men and women live under this roof,” she murmured.

Whatever thoughts she was processing weren’t obvious to me. The silence became slightly stressful as we moved on. Only stressful because now we were looking at pictures Patrick wasn’t in, pictures portraying a young woman surrounded by her family –her parents, specifically, one of whom was standing next to me. The stress was emanating from her as a mix of emotions crossed her face, some happy, some sad, as we continued our stroll down memory lane.

“He was very quiet growing up. Always kept to himself, never asked for anything. His aunts and uncles though, my children, they always made sure to include him in their games, made sure he had clothes when new ones were needed. There’s a saying, ‘It takes a village to raise a child.’ For Patrick, we were his village. I think being the youngest of most of our children, our eldest child’s child, it was perhaps hard on him. We didn’t always have time for him. But...” she exhaled, then turned and, now holding my hand, led me further back down the hallway and into a room that looked more like a library than an office.

An old plush leather couch sat against one wall beneath some windows. She pointed me toward it. I sat down stiffly, still uncomfortable as she moved to a shelf and pulled a large leather-clad binder off it. It was a photo-album, “P A D R I G” clearly spelled out in bold, golden lettering on its cover, that she sat down on the table in front of the couch, flipping it open to reveal more photos of Padrig...Patrick...

I decided that to me, he was Patrick.

A smile lit up her face as we came across a baby photo, an even older woman than his grandmother holding Patrick swathed in a blue blanket, tufts of blond hair sticking out of a baby beanie cap stretched across his head. His eyes were closed. Baby Patrick was obviously asleep. More baby photos of Patrick being held in a rocking chair, a crib, and held against the old woman’s chest as she sat on a couch surrounded this photo.

“His great-grandmother was always there for him. So while my husband and I were busy trying to raise our children, she raised him...”

She flipped the pages, stopping at a photo of green countryside, a brick bridge visible in the background. In the foreground was Patrick and his great-grandmother. This photo was vastly different from all the others I’d seen of Patrick. Patrick was smiling up at the old woman, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. “The river and stone arched bridge in Snowdonia National Park, Gwynedd, Wales. He was happy when she was around...”

She flipped to another photo. This time they were standing in the foreground of a large brick structure with several arches. Patrick was looking away from the camera, a finger pointing at the large structure. “Here they are at the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct... I don’t think he ever forgave us when we left her in Wales, and came here to raise our family...I’m not sure she ever did either, but...” She suddenly looked at me and shrugged her shoulders, looking lost.

I had to wonder why she was telling me all this.

“I don’t think it came as much surprise to anyone when he asked...no...demanded to go back before his fourteenth birthday...”

She flipped through the album some more, revealing more photos of Patrick in Wales, older thanhe was inthe previous photos. The same woman, now ancient, stood next to him in these photos.

“Jeez, she’s soo...old...,” I remarked without thinking, panicked when I realized what I’d said. I looked at Patrick’s grandmother, ready to apologize when her laughter rang through the room. “Don’t let her hear you say that,” she remarked, “She’s not even sixty-five yet, and I promise you, she’ll kick anyone’s arse she hears calling her old. That is one woman not to be trifled with.” Patrick’s grandma was still smiling.

I glanced around, still feeling slightly self-conscious. “She’s not here, is she?” I asked, not wanting to get my ass kicked by a sixty-something year old woman.

Grandma shook her head. “No. She’s still in Wales. In all the years we’ve lived here, she hasn’t come to visit once, though we talk on occassion.”

I felt her sadness, pulled the album closer, trying to think of something to do to distract Patrick’s grandma, althoughwhen I pulled the book closerto inspect one photo, I saw a distant look on his face. Patrick wasn’t smiling in this one. It was like he didn’t even know the picture was being taken.

“No...I think it was for the best...” the old woman continued, prattling on. “After my daughter died in Ireland at the beginning of the drug problems that took Veronica Guerin’s life, I don’t think my husband was ever the same...”

I looked up when she mentioned that Patrick’s mother was dead.

“I don’t think he knew what to do with himself...I don’t think I did either.” A tear was sliding down her cheek. I shifted, even more uncomfortable because this old woman who was sitting next to me was crying. How did one comfort an old lady?

“But Dafydd, my husband...his mom...she was so strong. She didn’t hesitate to make us claim Patrick to raise him when we went to Ireland to get our daughter’s body...”

She fell silent, her eyes seeming to venture back in time. A shudder wracked her body.

“What about his dad?” I asked suddenly. Her eyes met mine.

“We don’t know. No name was ever given on his birth-certificate. He was in care when we got to Ireland, and it took...a lot...to get custody of Patrick. We never pursued the issue.”

“Oh,” was all I could think to say.

She patted me on the knee, then she was standing up and going back to the bookshelf, pulling more albums down. P A D R I G spelled out neatly on each cover.She set them in front of me.

“Thank you,” she said.

I glanced up, surprised by the sudden warmth I heard in her voice. Warmth that was directed completely at me.

“For what?” I asked, startled.

She smiled at me, an honest smile.

“For...for whatever reason, Patrick has decided to stay and go to school here this year. I don’t think his hen-nain..ehr...great-grandmother...was pleased much...but..I think you had something to do with his decision...and...” she stopped, took a deep breath and looked me in the eye. “...it gives me a chance to get to know my grandson. I didn’t take that chance the first time I had it... I won’t pass this chance up.”

Then she was leaving the room, mumbling something about needing to go get dinner ready for the masses, telling me to take my time and look at the photos as much as I wanted. I didn’t respond to that, still surprised by her brutal honesty and the regrets that she had expressed; regrets that she had decided to confide in to me. It made my stomach hurt even more.

That didn’t stop me from looking at each photo though, carefully inspecting Patrick in each picture. Smiling when I saw a smudge of chocalate smeared across his chin as he celebrated a birthday, or the way he smiled a genuine smile when he was around his great-grandmother or, very rarely, his uncle Bryce.

It was a genuine smile that I soon discovered was only featured in each photo of the very last album I opened. This album had photos of Patrick and Reese, Ken and Elizabeth. In some they were playing golf, or touring an amusement park, or celebrating more birthdays. Arms were stretched around the two boys as hugs were freely given out and returned. The smiles were truly, happily genuine, even as Reese and Patrick camped out on a carpetted floor in pajamas, snacking on popcorn while a much younger Reese lay on on top of an older Patrick’s back, reaching over Patrick’s head to get more popcorn, the greedy look of a hungry boy on his face.

Then the smiles weren’t so genuine, at least not on Patrick.

He looked sad and withdrawn in the very last photo taken of him and Reese.

Reese looked to be eleven or twelve in that photo. Patrick was probably somewhere around thirteen or fourteen, maybe even fifteen.

I closed that book on that last picture with a loud thump, making myself jump. I stared at the cover of the book, P A D R I G staring back at me with its gold-gilt script writing, bold and noticable.

I set the book down on the table and stared back at those letters before looking around the room. The door was still open and a variety of voices could be heard in the distance, all clamoring for attention as they prattled away in what I took to be the language of their native homeland. Welsh. Some far away land I’d most likely never get to see.

A land that Patrick, for whatever reason, had decided to not go back to, even though he had been raised there for a good portion of his childhood, and an even better portion of his teen years.

My mind was awhirl, trying to figure out why he had decided to stay here, even if his grandmother was grateful, regardless the reason. I couldn’t figure it out, even as I continued to stare at that gold-lettering.

I stood up and looked out the window, realizing the sun was still up in the western sky.

That meant dinner should be soon. My stomach growled at the thought of food. I started to walk to the door of the office but stopped when I spotted some paper and tape lying on the desk in a corner of the room. Making my way to the desk I found a pen and, not bothering to think anything of what I was doing, started scribbling out the same three letters over and over on a couple pieces of paper. Scissors that I found in the drawer enabled me to continue the crazy thought that was running through my head. Then I was putting the photo albums back on their shelves, smiling wildly to myself as I walked out the door, following the noise as I made my way downstairs and into a hallway; peering into the living area of the house. The trestle table was quickly being filled by moving bodies, squabling children and adults, all of which were ignored as my eyes found Patrick standing in the middle of the mess that passed as their living room, a baby in his arms that he was bouncing back and forth,shooting goofy looks at it.

I rolled my eyes and rather than making my presence known decided to escape unnoticed from his house before they could invite me to sit down and eat toadstools and belladonna and whatever else might pass for food around here. Only, I didn’t escape unnoticed. The front door opened just as I got to it, revealing the old man with his wild hair, standing in socks with a pair of work boots in one hand.

I stopped and backpedalled slightly, uttering an apology in my surprise at his sudden appearance. He shot me a look that I couldn’t decipher. I decided to ignore it, realizing I had more pressing needs.

“Which way back to the Windletons?” I asked.

Yeah, I wasn’t quite sure how to get back to the house I was temporarily staying in.

He gave me a bemused look, and then pointed out the door. “Behind the barn you’ll find a path leading across some fields and right on into the Windletons backyard,” he replied, his voice thickly filled with his accent. It took me a second to decipher what he said,but when I did I nodded my thanks, darted around him and headed down the porch steps.

I only looked back once, to see the old man staring out the door looking at me. I stopped suddenly and smirked to myself. “I won’t find any sacrificial altars out there in the woods, will I?” I shouted, deciding that if I couldn’t piss Patrick off anymore, maybe I could piss off his old man enough that Patrick would be told to stay away from me.

But the old man surprised me. He let out a sharp bark of laughter instead. “No bach, you won’ find no bloody altars out there. Just watch out fer Rhus when ya get to the woods,” he shouted.

I gave a sharp nod of my head, heading for the barn while wondering who Rhus was. “My name’s Micah,” I shouted over my shoulder, “not Bach. He’s a composer.” I added, just in case Patrick’s grandpa didn’t know. I didn’t think much more about it as I spotted the trail that led into a field behind the barn and toward a patch of woods in the distance.

I wasn’t long into the woods when I rather abruptly tripped over something. That trip clued me into who Rhus was, or perhaps I should saywhat rhus was. A three-stemmed leaf, slightly reddish along the edges with some sap covering it was a mere six-inches away from my outstretched hands, next to a wild growth of mushrooms growing haphazardly on a pile of mulch. Only, Rhus was more uncommonly known as Rhus Diversiloba or Poison Oak, and more then one bad experience with it had me up and on my feet in no time, examining the ground I’d fallen on to see if I’d touched the poisonous plant.

I was lucky though, because as best as I could tell I hadn’t fallen into it; I still gave the area as wide a berth as possible, though, and walked more carefully through the woods until I did indeed come to a field where the Windleton’s house was visible.

But so was the house that I had been in the other night. It’s stillness drew me to its front porch, a light shining through the windows of the double-wide door drew me back up its stairs and into the house. A look at the lightswitch revealed a neatly written note saying “DO NOT TOUCH! WILL ELECTROCUTE” taped over the push-buttons. I smirked, wondering who else had electrocuted themselves

A glance around the foyer didn’t reveal anyone, so I looked past the double doors into the large room that I could only think of as a ballroom. There wasn’t anyone there, either. Instead, I found a mess. A rather large mess. Someone had taken down all the crap that had been strewn along the wooden walls and started taking down the wood paneling; lumber sat on the floor.

I growled in frustration at this, finding myself annoyed as I inspected the haphazard work. The wood paneling that had been torn looked completely destroyed, as did some of the lath-and-plaster that I found in the space once occupied by the wood panels.

I found myself grateful that whoever had started this project hadn’t finished it. In fact, it looked like they hadn’t gotten very far at all. A quick glance around the floor revealed a pry-bar, a hammer, a flash light and a sledge-hammer. I shuddered, hoping they hadn’t been stupid enough to use the sledgehammer to tear down the walls. Picking up the pry-bar I set to work, pulling off wood panels as quick as I could and laying them neatly in a pile on the floor until I had a sizable space to view into.

What I saw made me shudder. The wiring was old and frayed in some places, the interior of the wall was covered with more lath-and-plaster, as I had suspected it would be. But that’s not what really bothered me. It was the fact that the wall was a load-bearing structure, the beam just barely visible in the ceiling stretching from one end of the room to the next as far as I could see with the flashlight.

The thought of the entire house crumbling around me had me shuddering again. That didn’t stop me from continuing on. I kept pulling the wood-paneling off, one at a time, piece by piece, until a voice that sounded far happier then I would have expected it to echoed through out the room just as I set another panel down.

“Found ‘im.”

And that voice had me looking up warily as Patrick came further into the room, talking on a cell phone. “’E’s in the old house on your property...I dunno....uh-huh. K. Nes ymlaen.”

He hung up the phone, apparently done with his conversation, and flashed me a look that said I was in trouble. “So this is where you ran off too. We’ve been looking for you,” he remarked.

“Oh? Did you miss me?” I asked, slightly sarcastic. I turned around and began prying the next piece of paneling off the wall.

“Nah. Taid told me you left when I found you missing from my bed,” he said absently as he came up and stood next to me, inspecting my work. I stepped back abruptly, dropped the wood panel, startling Patrick as I jumped out of the way.

He shot me a look as he himself barely got out of the way. “Now look at who’s trying to kill who,” he remarked. I couldn’t help it. I started laughing, telling him it was about time he ‘fessed up to his true intentions. He smiled at me as I continued to laugh, my sides hurting as I breathed a little harder, attempting to get my breath back.

And then the laughter died on my lips as Patrick took a step toward me, once more in my personal-space, a focused look appearing on his face as he stared at me. My back stiffened up, an uncomfortable feeling once more knotting in my stomach.

A minty smell reached my nose as he leaned toward me. I stepped back. “What’re you doing?” I mumbled.

Patrick never answered. A sneeze from the foyer had him stepping back and me whirling around. Joel came through the door,his eyes squeezed tightly shut as a comical expression took over his face. He sneezed again, and again, and again.

Joel finally managed to stop sneezing. His eyes settled on me the second he opened them, and a grumpy expression appeared on his face as he, well, marched toward me.

“You need to come home, right now!” he ordered before I could even ask him what was wrong.

“Uh. What’s wrong?” I asked, confused, still wondering what Patrick had been about to do.

“And why are you here?” I added.

“I’m hungry,” he informed me, looking as bent out of shape as I felt.

My stomach growled suddenly. I ignored it, turning to Patrick and grabbing at his hand, snatching his cell phone away as I looked at the clock.

Holy shit, it was almost nine p.m. I cursed the lack of windows in the room, feeling like I should have known what time it was, but decided that I didn’t really care either. Because the mess in the room showed that I had been keeping busy, and feeling like I’d been doing something productive made me feel...good.

It was the first time I’d felt good about myself since I’d gotten there.

“Didn’t Elizabeth cook you guys dinner?” I asked. Out of the corner of my eye, standing next to me, I saw Patrick cringe.

His expression matched the same one that appeared on Joel’s face.

“Well, yeah...”

“Cool. So what’d you guys have,” I asked. “Because I’m hungry.”

“Well...she cooked those frozen pot-pie dinners that you’d bought from the grocery store,” Joel remarked.

I smiled. “Good. I like those. You saved me a turkey one, right?” I asked. Turkey was my favorite.

Joel nodded, a frown still heavy upon his face.

“So...she didn’t let you eat more then one? That’s okay. I’ll make sure you get some more,” I told Joel, deciding that would make him feel better. I grabbed him and spun him around, pulling his back into mine as I started walking toward the door, hugging him.

Joel shook his head though and pulled away until he could face me again. “Micah,” he whined, his handsigns coming out real slow, “she burned the pot-pies.”

Okay. That had me stopping in my tracks and staring at him with all my attention. “Okay, that’s fine...I’ll just cook the others.”

Joel shook his head at me.

“All of them?” I asked in disbelief, my brow furrowing.

Joel nodded, a smile lighting up his face as I finally sensed how bad it was at the Windletons house.

“But...they’re microwavable...how...”

Joel shrugged. Patrick snickered. I glared, feeling even more bent out of shape as I tried to figure it out. Joel went back to frowning at me. I got the feeling something else was bothering him.

“What else is wrong?” I asked him, deciding to go with my gut instincts, because when it came to Joel, my gut instincts were hardly ever wrong. Something else must have happened while I was gone if he wasn’t being his usual cheerful, annoying self.

“Still have a hangover?” I asked, inspecting him to see if he was still throwing up. He didn’t look like he was still sick. Joel shook his head at me, looking truly troubled.

I felt myself frown as Joel looked at me, hesitating.

He didn’t hesitate long enough.

“That shrink guy thinks he can help make me talk again.”

---

The house was quiet, to the point of being uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure if it was because the drunk shrink, who introduced himself as Doctor Holmes, who wasn’t drunk, was still there or if it was because I’d walked into the house and glared at everyone before walking into the kitchen.

Joel was still out there in the living room, sitting on the couch between Patrick and Reese while Ken and Elizabeth sat there making quiet conversation with the doctor. They didn’t seem to be focused on Joel speaking again, even though Ken had asked what I was pissed off about now, saying he was sorry for dragging me to an AA meeting. Patrick told him that might be it, but it more likely had something to do with the fact that the shrink wanted to shrink my brother who was already short enough as it was just to make him talk again. It’d taken me a second to realize Patrick was trying to make a joke. I didn’t find it very funny.

That’s probably what prompted them to change the subject to whatever piece of small talk they could think of. You’d think I would have been galled over this, and wanting to ask a bunch of questions.

I did have questions. But I didn’t need to ask them. When I’d walked into the kitchen and started the hamburger meat to browning, I’d sat down at the dining room table and discovered a bunch of papers that looked like they had just been freshly printed off.

The doctor had printed out a bunch of papers on Selective Mutism, treatment options, causes. There were also, as I discovered while flipping through the materials on the table, case files on Hysterical Mutism.

I found the reading to be slightly boring, most likely because I didn’t completely understand what was going on in all the reading I’d been doing.

I put my head down on the table, eyes going out of focus on the papers in front of me, hands clutching at them tightly. The only thing disturbing me was the chatter coming from the living room; the smell of cooked hamburger filling the kitchen, and my own thoughts, until a chair was scooted out across from me.

I looked up and found the good doctor seated across from me, his hand wrapped neatly around a glass cup. “Hi,” he smiled at me, “I’m Doctor…”

“Timmy,” I interrupted. “Yeah, you introduced yourself at the AA meeting earlier.”

I got up from the table, papers still clutched in my hand and moved into the kitchen, shut off the fire; drained the meat and threw it back into the pan, covered it with spaghetti sauce and checked the noodles; still warm.

It was perfect.

It also kept me from talking to Timmy, who still sat at the table, watching me intently as I worked in the kitchen. I felt like he could see right through me, but wasn’t judging. It was unsettling.

I pulled the French bread out of the oven and finally asked the question that was bothering me.

“Will it work?”

His response was unsatisfactory. He shrugged his shoulders at me.

“I don’t know,” he followed up with, “but I’d like to try.”

I frowned. He smiled. How annoying.

“S.M., if that’s what this is, is very rare. About seven in one thousand children have it. But his symptoms are far worse than anything described that I have read so far, seeing as he isn’t speaking to anyone…He spoke when he was younger, right?”

I nodded, at the same time asking, “What’s this going to cost?” My shoulders were tense; I could feel them, so tight they felt like they’d snap. It was like the weight of the world was on my shoulders. Memories I’d rather have forgotten surfaced.

“Nothing,” he said quietly.

The frown on my face worsened at this news. My head was starting to ache. I didn’t want handouts. “It has to cost something,” I pointed out, deciding to argue with him.

“No it doesn’t,” he said firmly. “Not if I’m volunteering to do this for free. Besides, I have to admit that I’ve never treated anyone with this…problem…before. I’m afraid I find myself rather intrigued. So…it costs nothing.”

I was still frowning at him, trying to think of something to say that would help argue my point.

“You can see me too, if you want,” he offered. That took me by surprise.

“There’s nothing wrong with me; Joel either, for that matter,” was the only thing I could think of to say when I realized that I should probably say something.

He laughed at me. “Of course there isn’t,” he agreed amicably, “I was just thinking that…maybe you would, I don’t know, like to talk to someone. It must be hard, your life being turned upside down so abruptly. It was just a thought though. You don’t have to if you don’t want too.”

I set the plates I’d gotten out down on the counter.

“Besides,” he continued, “I promise you can yell at me if you want, as long as I get to yell back.” He flashed me a grin as he said it. It put me at ease. Ken and Elizabeth came into the dining room. I gestured to the plates and silverware, pointed to the table. It was my way of saying ‘set the table’.

Ken understood. “Dinner,” he hollered over his shoulder.

“Do you do anger management?” I asked, shooting Ken a glare that he barely saw as I said it. “I’m sure we can figure something out regarding your…anger…issues…if you would like,” Timmy said.

“How about verbal communication?” I asked next, this time glaring at Ken until he was paying attention. I knew it was a stupid question, considering the entire subject started because of Joel but as far as I was concerned, Ken’s verbal communication skills sucked and needed improvement, “and…I’ll think of something…”

Timmy let out a short bark of laughter, giving me an appraising look. “I can try,” he remarked, “no promises though,” he added as an afterthought, also looking at Ken. Ken didn’t seem very happy.

Everyone else sat down at the table. Patrick, Reese and Joel were looking at me. Patrick was the only one who seemed to understand what was going on.

“I’ll do it if he does it,” Ken finally muttered.

“Joel too,” Elizabeth suddenly said, catching my attention for the first time.

“Only for his…mutism,” I insisted.

Elizabeth nodded at me. “Unless he wants otherwise,” she interjected, joining the negotiations taking place between Ken and me.

Her request was reasonable. I guess.

I put dinner on the table and sat down, not giving my agreement. Patrick was cutting the garlic bread when I finally looked at him. “Didn’t you eat already?” I asked.

Patrick shrugged at me. “I’m a teenage boy…I’m always hungry,” he informed me plaintively, as if I should know this.

I eyed him. Someone laughed. “Can you do anything for impulsive liars?” I asked Timmy, still eyeing Patrick. Patrick dropped the garlic bread, opened his mouth to say something.

“Payback’s a bitch,” I informed him, smiled sweetly.

I turned to Timmy, wanting an answer. He looked confused but nodded his head slowly. “I can…try.”

Patrick groaned. “Fine,” he muttered.

“Fine! I’ll do anger management, Ken anger management and control freak management and communication and…Patrick will stop lying,” I said, deciding to spell out the terms of my surrender. “Agreed?”

My surrender in exchange for Joel getting a chance to speak again…It was, I thought, the only thing worth surrendering for, because there was no way in hell I’d be leaving now if this shrink could help Joel. Help fix my…mistake.

“And Joel will work on his lack of speech problem,” Elizabeth interjected, something like relief coming to her face.

I nodded my head, glanced around the table.

Ken looked annoyed, but finally said yes, those were the terms he was agreeing too. Patrick was the last one to agree.

A noodle landed on my shirt, caught my attention.

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Joel asked.

“No, you don’t,” Patrick and I said at the same time.

I looked at Patrick. Green eyes met mine, amused.

“Masterful,” Timmy said suddenly. We looked at him. He smiled at me just before he plopped a chunk of garlic bread into his mouth.

End Chapter 10.

 

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