So Weeps the Willow - 12. Discovery - Chapter 2

Building a Case - Chapter 2

Twyla Sizemore picked up a jar of peanut butter, checked the ingredient list on the label, and placed it in her shopping cart without remembering what it said. Usually she loved grocery shopping. It was a chance to get away from the boys, let Steve spend some time with them, and think about the week ahead. She’d peruse the produce looking for deals and the freshest fruits and vegetables. Often this would be the theme of her meals. It used to be meat, then Steve got sick and so she had to do something to help. If only it was that.

Making their meals more nutritious was the best she could think of doing. It screwed with her head, but that usually meant seeking out special ingredients. Magazines and websites said there were foods that combated things, helped with the immune system, and were healthier for a person battling cancer. Some of these things were a little weird, but she had to try them. Ignoring the headlines made her feel guilty, and then Steve would die, or suffer or something.

It was better than nothing. She felt pretty helpless at first. When they sat together across from the doctor and he hemmed and hawed about the results, they both knew. She took Steve’s hand. Steve squeezed her hand too hard. That was only three weeks ago, and he started his first chemo rounds days later.

He cried like a baby then and thinking of it made Twyla wipe her eyes. She wasn’t really crying now. It was more to stem the tide, as it were. They’d been through so much this past month. Steve’s diagnosis, her bout with the flu, and then her brother’s funeral. Last night had finally finished off their really bad, truly awful, and totally depressing month. Jake had been lowered into the ground while her parents acted like insane people. Christ on a crutch. Literally, her savior was hobbled.

Twyla realized she hadn’t purchased any salsa or tomato sauce. She needed some pasta, spaghetti or fettucine or something, because all the health magazines and websites agreed on one thing; chemo meant lots of starches. Considering that thought, she grabbed a package of low sodium saltine crackers and a bag of whole wheat crisps of some kind. She barely noticed the packaging now. If she didn’t give him carbs, he was miserable. She couldn’t listen to him cry out. He clutched his stomach and it killed her. God, this thinking about this shit was fucking shitty. Shitty.

The blues were once again taking over.

Her brother was gone, in an accident, or as she first thought, by suicide. Authorities weren’t really sure. Her mother and father, fucking messes, pooh-poohed her initial concerns. Yet, there was something which presented itself as more logical, sensible, about her brother. He wouldn’t do this, right? How could someone as together as Jake plan his own death? Especially since he had told her he was better, or was he?

He was a disaster. Jake had been on the verge lately. There was improvement the last couple of weeks, but it never lasted. The authorities insisted he died of an accident. In a strange way, she could see that was true, yet it seemed to be a self-inflicted wound, his death in the dark of the night.

Twyla rubbed the bridge of her nose, which had the beneficial effect of staunching the threatening tears. Up the next aisle, she saw a large, economy sized bottle of Advil. She grabbed it and headed for the next row, which contained the chips and pop. There she grabbed a twelve pack of ginger ale, a bag of tortilla chips, a six pack of Diet Coke, and a box of potato stix, her favorite comfort food. Her mother opened a round tube of the usually stale and salty snack whenever things got difficult. It reminded Twyla of hard times and the succor of her mom munching happily on them while joking with Jake and her dad.

Those were the days.

Jake. Her brother, who apparently put a very leaky kerosene heater in his small, closed-off apartment and slept his way into oblivion. It seemed so weird from the last time she spoke with him. Jake had called, excitedly spilling his guts about not being an alcoholic, how his week of sobriety had made things better, and why he thought he could start things over. Jake talked about going back to school. He was gushing about possible experiments and how he was eligible for a grant available to people returning from long absences engaged in research programs.

Why now? She thought. With Steve’s diagnosis, and her confessions of depression and confusion, Jake had been so supportive. He told her he’d be there for them, for their family. His death didn’t make sense. Why would he kill himself now? He knew this would fucking kill her, from the inside.

Twyla stopped in front of the eggs and green plastic bags of freshly shredded hash browns. Fingering a carton of large eggs, she thought about his enthusiasm and how it differed from their talks a couple of months ago. At their father’s annual Fourth of July picnic, he’d been down, a little distant, and incredibly sarcastic. Jake’s acerbic wit was legendary, but this was extreme. She was a bit worried after she, Steve, and the kids finally left after the fireworks. Jake’s state of mind was definitely down and rather out of it.

Okay, maybe that explained things. The young brown-haired mother of two grabbed the carton of eggs and placed it in the cart. She pushed past the refrigerated doughs and opened the glass cooler doors. Hefting two gallons of milk from the shelf, she plunked them down onto the bottom of the cart.

Her brother had been depressed. His experiment with sobriety-- and that was exactly how he’d described it, was a bust. She pushed on toward the cashiers. A bit aggressively, Twyla passed another older woman with a mostly empty cart closer to the exit. Quite frankly, all she wanted now was the exit. It was the only place she could breathe. Her chest was tight and threatened to squeeze out a scream.

***

“Is there a lot left to carry in?” her husband asked.

“There are a couple more bags. I can get them.”

Steve was looking at her strangely, closely. “I’ll get them. You look tired sweetheart. Let me help.” Her husband seemed upset. He said, and she almost cried at the admission, “I can still help you. Please.”

Twyla’s trip home had been harrowing. Twice she’d almost not stopped the car in time. Jake’s face kept popping into her mind. Steve’s sad face when the doctor stuttered about the diagnosis was looming from within. She probably was tired. It wouldn’t surprise her if she still had a bit of a temperature. Last night it hovered around a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Didn’t they say flu caused depression or something?

“Thank you, darling.” The woman paused and considered his attempt. Then, “If you don’t mind. I’ll get dinner started.”

Steve took her arms and pulled her close. “I already have it handled. Pizza is coming. The boys are psyched about having pizza, popcorn, and a couple of movies including one that is PG-13. You need to relax. I need to rest up for next week.” He pulled her face towards his. “Promise me you’ll keep talking to me about all this. It’s a lot to take in.”

Twyla nodded. It was almost an autonomous reaction, yet she agreed with every emotion her husband was expressing. “I will. Let’s get this stuff put away and have a nice evening.”

Steve headed through the living room, and out the door and it was then Twyla remembered the last thing her brother ever said to her.

He asked, “Where did that bucket come from? I certainly didn’t have a bucket sitting in my living room before bed.”

After dinner, Twyla loaded the dishwasher and turned it on. Steve and the boys were playing cards and laughing. It was good to see her husband acting naturally, having fun with Logan and Stevie, like they used to. Steve’s health issues had been a problem for the past couple of months, but until his diagnosis it had only isolated him bit by bit from the family. Twyla had watched her husband start shrinking away from them, going off to the garage or out to sales meetings, leaving them all behind.

It had started so mildly, therefore, it took her a while to figure out something was wrong. Why was she such an idiot. The information was out there. Why did she pretend it was all right?

First, Steve didn’t want to be held in bed or hugged. Both Logan and Steve, Jr. were openly demonstrative kids who ran to their father with big, tight embraces. At first, he seemed okay, but there were expressions on his face she couldn’t ignore. Soon he started avoided them. Of course, kids who are seven and nine didn’t understand why their father was suddenly so distant.

Twyla didn’t really know either. Then he started moving away when she’d initiate romantic gestures. Steve had always been willing and eager to have sex, they had two kids and it had never been an issue, but he seemed uncomfortable now.

She suggested a visit to the doctor, which ended in a very loud and accusatory argument. The boys hid in the basement because it had gotten so nasty, leaving both Steve and her in tears. He couldn’t articulate what was wrong, except he wasn’t in the mood. It hurt her when he recoiled at her touch. Like she was hurting him, with a simple caress. Something was obviously wrong, she sensed, no, she fucking knew.

Again, Twyla begged him to see the doctor. Steve refused to discuss, saying it was nothing. Men went through dry spells just like women did. Why couldn’t she believe him? Had he ever given her a reason to doubt him? He wasn’t stepping out, and why didn’t she believe him? That’s when other signs became apparent.

Steve seemed to be experiencing back pain, he struggled to get out of bed, or the car from time to time, and then it would go away. A couple of her girlfriends seemed to think he was having an affair. She wasn’t so sure. His reaction from her touch and his grimaces when the boys tried to hug him appeared real, not faked. Also, he didn’t seem the least bit cagey. In fact, he seemed a little out of it from time to time, and dazed. He was never dazed.

She called her brother and talked to him. It had only been a little over two weeks ago. He sounded terrible, but he laughed at her question. She remembered their conversation.

“Steve doesn’t have single cheating instinct in his body. That man is so straight and narrow, he wouldn’t know how to have an affair.”

“He’s a man. We’ve been together over fifteen years now. Maybe I’m not getting his motor running or something.”

Jake cleared his throat and continued. “Listen, Sis, if Steve got the notion to cheat on you, I don’t think you’d be wondering. The man is the definition of the clueless man. He’d probably put it on your credit card so he wouldn’t lose the points if he rented some cheap, sleazy motel room. He’d accidently call her in front of you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he mentioned her and then looked as guilty as hell.”

“He’s pulling away from us, both me and the kids. That’s not like him. Usually he’s father-of-the-year and lately he’s been absent-without-leave.”

“He could be going through something at work. Maybe there’s an issue with a coworker. Steve never did play well with others his own age. He’s always better with kids and old people. The man is too straight-forward and too fucking honest, quite frankly.”

“He does seem to have run-ins at work,” she admitted. “Steve never really had his own friends. We have couples we do things with, especially ones with kids. You’re right; he’s a bit of a loner, not really one of the guys.”

Jake didn’t say anything in response, at first. “Maybe he is having health issues. You said he won’t go to the doctor. Do you want me to say something to him?”

“Good God, no,” she answered quickly. “If Steve knew I was talking about him to you, he’d be furious and mortified at the same time. I think he’s a bit scared of you.”

“Of me?” Jake asked. “I thought Steve liked me. We’ve always got along well.”

“No, he thinks you’re great, especially how you spoil the boys, but he is nervous around you.”

Jake chuckled at this. “Does he think I’m going to jump his bones?”

“No, stop that. He’s not like that.”

“I know. Listen, tell him to get a checkup. It could be something really easy to deal with.”

“I will, thanks.” It was then she hung up.

That conversation had been so normal, even over her husband’s problem, she couldn’t believe it. Her brother had been so ordinary and acted so like himself, like Jake, not a suicide case. She didn’t really know how people about to commit suicide talked, now did she? But, why had their conversation been difficult. Her brother didn’t sound down or manic or anything special. He’d even laughed and joked about Steve.

He’d cared, she knew that. In fact, they’d both been right. Steve had continued to resist, but Jake’s comment had pushed her over the edge. The next morning, she called and made an appointment with their family doctor.

She expected a fight with Steve that evening when she told him. Instead, he was strangely complacent. After they put the kids to bed, he admitted he’d been having shortness of breath. That very afternoon, he’d had lower abdominal pains, aches really, and he was a little scared.

Twyla held his hand and they talked about his symptoms and his nervousness. They had a glass of wine before bed, and he fell asleep right away.

She didn’t. Steve’s sudden acquiescence after his complete denial of his problem, terrified her. Her brother was right. Steve was clueless, guileless, and a little slow socially. Her husband was a good father, a good man, not the sharpest knife in the butcher block, but a really sincere person. He was also a proud man, who wouldn’t have given up so easily if something serious wasn’t plaguing him.

It took a long time for sleep to come that night. Now she knew why.

***

Clay bounded into the house, he quickly locked the door behind him, and threw his bag on the chair in the entryway. He could hear the rustling of movement in the next room, the kitchen, which surprised him. Rush had texted his schedule which had him outside some chick’s door in Edina waiting to serve a subpoena. Unless he’d gotten a more than amenable party, he’d be there all day.

Clay stopped in his tracks. He listened closely until he heard the faint sound of music tinkling from the other room. It was Lady Gaga’s “Applause” and along with the melody, the teen heard a shuffling of feet. That’s when it hit him. It was Ben.

“Ben?” he called out.

“In here,” was the response and it made his heart sing.

Clay raced into the kitchen and saw Rush’s boyfriend was pulling a tray of something out of the oven. He could smell it, his favorite monster cookies redolent with peanut butter, oatmeal, chocolate bits, nuts, craisins, you name it. They were warm and still bubbling a little, brown and luscious as the man set them down on a cast iron trivet and grinned at Clay.

“You’re baking cookies?”

“I am. Rush will be a little bit, so I let myself in and decided to be useful.” The shorter man beamed at him. “I hope that’s okay.”

The teen responded with enthusiasm. “If Rush doesn’t marry you, I will.”

He took a warm cookie from the wax paper lining the rack and looked up. Ben was blushing a little, raised red roses graced his cheeks. “What?”

“Nothing. I’m…I’m glad you like the cookies.” It was Ben’s stuttered response.

Clay plopped down onto a stool at the breakfast bar. He took another bite and said through a mouth full of crumbs, “You know I want you here, right?”

Ben hesitated. He carefully removed each cookie from the hot tray and placed them on the cooling rack.

After he finished the task, he fidgeted with the mixing bowl, still half full of dough. “I hope so. You aren’t leaving. You made a threat and nothing more. Right?”

“I’m not leaving here, at least not now,” Clay answered without pause. “Rush is right. I’m doing pretty well now. I’m sleeping good, almost through the night always. I don’t have freak outs as much. I’ve got a couple of good friends at school who I hang with. Right now, it’s all good and I don’t wanna fuck it up.”

“So, why did you email me like that?”

Clay considered his answer carefully as he finished the giant treat, and brushed his hands clean. “I’m in this group, not at school, that gay group is super lame. I am going to a group where there are people like me, guys, girls, and others who are unsure … doesn’t matter, and we talk about what we’ve experienced. I--”

“Is this a group therapy session or something?” Ben interrupted.

“Not really.” Clay grabbed another cookie from the rack and took a bite. It was hot and it burnt his tongue. He fanned his scalded tongue and continued. “This group has kinda been through what I have. Someone they trusted got them into trouble, used them, and they are feeling a lot like I do.” The teen was watching Ben closely out of the corner of his eye. He looked confused.

“You know what I went through with Garret, right?”

Ben winced. He did indeed remember Clay’s older boyfriend had enticed the young teen a couple of years ago to the Twin Cities. It was here on the streets and back alleys of Minneapolis the older man had gotten Clay to turn tricks. When the boy rebelled, Garret had a group he was affiliated with ‘turn him out’, essentially rape him into submission. It was then that, a neighbor called the police. Afterwards, it was Ben who’d first met Clay and then asked Rush for help in dealing with the teen.

“I know what you’ve been through, Clay. I’m sorry. I thought maybe you’d…” Ben didn’t finish his thought.

Clay sighed. With a sad smile he began, “I’m never going to be completely ‘over it’, not really. I’m realizing it was an experience which scarred me. That scar will always be there, and I need to become comfortable with it.” He quickly added, looking hopefully at Ben, “I know that sounds a little groupie, but it’s what I’m learning from the others. I’m different, as they are, and we can learn to cope with it. That’s all.”

Ben didn’t say anything as he portioned dough from the stainless-steel bowl onto the sheet pan. “It’s interesting you say that,” he started. Ben licked his finger and grinned at the youth. “Most of what we’re told by the social services people suggests you get better with therapy and talking about it. What you’re saying is, you never get over it. You can cope with it, handle it, but you will always have to deal with the pain of the event. I have to say, I’m really sorry to hear that. It makes sense though.”

Clay continued munching on the now-cooled cookie. “I’m one of the entry counselors now. I help the newbies when they start coming to group and make them feel welcome.”

“You’re counseling them now?” Ben smiled and seemed to relax. “You’re already giving back.”

Clay squirmed in his stool, turning a little pink in the process. “I’m not anything special. But, yeah, I’m helping the new guys feel like part of things, like they’re not freaks.”

Ben noticed the teen was now looking inside himself, eating a treat like a normal, ordinary teen, and glowing in the recognition he was accomplishing something. He remembered feeling like that after becoming the president of the chess club and getting a star at the piano recital in high school. There was a feeling of satisfaction, which really couldn’t be conveyed from another person. It was a self-awareness that crept up and caught you in surprise.

It was good to see Clay was healing. He finished putting the balls of dough on the tray and put it in the oven. The other rack was starting to brown. Ben smiled to himself.

***

Minneapolis Fire Department

Incident Report

Location: 1550 Loring Lane, Minneapolis, Apt 406.

Date: September 23^rd, 20XX Time: 8:47 am

Responding Personnel: Cadet, Senior Grade Brandon Freeman

Supervisor: Brenda Stangeland

Station Chief: Hal Kronenberg

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Narrative: [Officials must use full verbiage. This is an official document.]

Cadet Freeman arrived on the scene outside the apartment building at the above location. Both emergency inspectors were outfitted with masks and oxygen tanks, given the reported danger. Cross-checks were accomplished and then personnel were ready to proceed. The following include the observations of the reporting firefighters:

Emergency personnel were at the steps, with police controlling access. A gurney was seen at the base of the stairs, presumably for moving a body.

Freeman and his supervisor, Brenda Stangeland, ascended to the entrance of the large brownstone. Upon entry, fire personnel continued up an interior stairway to the second floor. Three doors down, and to the right, there was a policeman stationed and was speaking with another firefighter, a first responder, from Station 8, Minneapolis Fire Department. He identified himself as XXXXXXXXXX. He stated the following:

After a 911 call, he and another firefighter, XXXXXXXXX, arrived on the premises and found a young woman outside the premises. She indicated she’d made the emergency call and found the victim on the second floor and presumed deceased. A police officer then interceded and continued the interview. The statement from the witness is attached.

Freeman and Stangeland entered the unlocked apartment. It was rather warm, but there were open windows and it was evident air was moving through the space. The apartment was one room with an attached bathroom. Off to the rear, farthest from the door, was a small Pullman kitchen. Upon inspection, no appliances were running except the refrigerator.

The stove was turned off, and Freeman noted from a meter that natural gas was not present in the air. Stangeland had a carbon monoxide monitor, which showed elevated levels of CO gas in the apartment. The levels were not especially high upon arrival. However, there was a window ajar along the outside wall.

Stangeland noted a small kerosene gas heater was present and not running at the time. The firefighter felt the surface and noted it was quite warm. The temperature of the heater was taken and the surface metal was found to be at 293 degrees Fahrenheit, well below the ignition temperature of a fire.

Freeman inspected the body on the Murphy bed and found the young male’s cheeks, pink and rosy. His surface temperature according to a directional thermometer, was 78 degrees Fahrenheit, well above the ambient temp of 66 degrees.

Air sampling equipment was used to capture carbon monoxide levels in the room. There were tests in the separate bathroom, kitchen, alongside the bed, and in the area with two chairs and a television. The space around the kerosene heater showed elevated levels more consistent with a possible poisoning. Levels measured in the other areas of the space were significantly lower.

The heater was identified as a Rosemount 750 was secured with a bag and labeled. Freeman saw some splintered glass on the dial of a device on the implement. There were also some smudges of gray and black soot around both the intake and exhaust areas of the heater. Preliminary findings would suggest the heater was the source of the carbon monoxide.

The investigation team exited the apartment. The pre-screened equipment was then tested for calibrations post-inspection. They were consistent within the protocols of testing parameters.

Witness statements to follow.

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