Beautiful chaos, p.1
Beautiful Chaos, page 1
Beautiful
Chaos
ALEX TULLY
Copyright © 2016 Alex Tully
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 153344109X
ISBN-13: 978-1533441096
Cover Art by Ana Grigoriu Books-design.com
One hundred octillion =
100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000
(or a one with twenty-nine zeros after it)
PROLOGUE
She sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at the phone. All she had to do was pick it up and push play, but her hands felt numb, paralyzed. She had to watch it, she knew that. But everything inside of her was telling her not to.
She took a deep breath and wrapped her fingers around the smooth silicone case. She slid the little button on the side to the mute position and tapped the white arrow in the black box. She would watch first, then listen.
Hardwood floors appeared for the first few seconds, then a pair of sandals—teal wedges with navy-painted toes peeking out. The feet began moving, running erratically, and the screen began shaking.
A flash of a sofa, a fireplace, and then she saw it. She paused the video, went back a few seconds, and paused again. A face, up-close and indisputable—his face. However brief a glimpse, it was there, forever frozen in time.
The wood floor appeared again, feet scampering, and then blackness. Fuzzy blackness that went on for eleven more seconds until the video ended.
Seeing it was bad enough, but listening to it would be bad on a whole new level. A horrible prickly sensation came over her and with a trembling finger she un-muted the phone and pushed the white arrow again. As she watched the screen her mouth went dry and her heart began thudding loudly in her chest. But not loud enough to block out the sounds.
She listened to the pleas, the desperation, “Please! I’m sorry! No!”
Suddenly her stomach lurched and she felt like she might get sick. Jumping off the bed she quickly made her way to the bathroom, turned on the sink and splashed cold water on her face.
She looked in the mirror, barely recognizing the girl in front of her—an exhausted girl with fear in her eyes, a girl so far removed from what she once was. Her shoulders tightened, her breath caught in her throat. Her whole body began shaking uncontrollably and she collapsed to the ground in tears.
Hugging her knees into her chest, she started rocking, swinging the weight of her tiny frame over the cold, hard floor, her bare feet with navy-painted toes hitting the tiles with force.
She couldn’t get his face out of her head—the face that had caused her so much anguish—the face full of rage and determination.
But she had her own rage, her own determination, and it had been building inside of her for months. And now she felt something different, something new—hope. Because things were going to change, things had to change. And now she had a purpose. Now she had a plan.
CHAPTER 1
He had probably done it a hundred times, but it never got any easier. As soon as Brady O’Connell pulled open the back door to McGuire’s Pub, the all-too-familiar smells hit him in the face: corned beef soaking in sauerkraut, sweat-stained flannel on top of smoke-filled denim, beer breath laced with whiskey, and always a hint of Old Spice thrown in for good measure.
The bar was packed and loud, as it was every Thursday at six. Jimmy Rainey, a short, stocky guy with a crazy-long beard, spotted him first. Just like the illuminated McGuire’s sign hanging in the window, Jimmy was a permanent fixture there. Waving his can of Budweiser in the air, he called out, “Brady! Look, everybody, Brady’s here!”
Brady gave Jimmy his customary wave and quickly moved on to Pete, an old Irishman with thinning red hair and a thick accent. “Brady!” He lifted his mug in salute, the dark amber liquid sloshing over the sides. “How are ya, my boy?”
“Good.” Brady nodded. “Good to see you, Pete.”
He moved like a politician through the crowd. “Hey, Joe,” a nod, “Liam,” a nod. Like a lot of the regulars at McGuire’s, they both worked at Union Steel, one of the area’s biggest employers. The rank odor of molten steel lingered around them, a nasty byproduct of their jobs.
Next, he got a quiet “Hey, kid” from ‘Eagle Ears’ Bob. Although Bob didn’t say much, he still seemed to know everything about everybody, thus earning himself the nickname. Brady had asked him once, just for fun, why they called him Eagle Ears.
Bob shook his head. “You know what, kid? I have told these idiots a million times that an eagle’s hearing is no better than any other damn bird’s.” He pointed to the corner of his right eye. “It’s the eagle’s eyes that are special.” Then he put his hand on Brady’s shoulder, his expression dead serious. “I told them they should be calling me ‘Pigeon Ears’ because pigeons have an exceptional sense of hearing. Did you know that?”
Brady had to hold back a laugh. “No, I didn’t know that.”
He gave Bob a nod and continued down the bar. “Quinn,” a nod, “Mike,” a fist-bump—he was one of the few guys under the age of thirty.
He finally came to the end, to the seat at the front of the bar—the seat reserved for him. Before he even had a chance to sit down, Maggie scurried over to him, moving quicker than most sixty-year-olds, her crazy orange hair bouncing behind her.
“How’s my favorite customer?!” she squawked.
His shoulders tensed. “Hey, Maggie.” He gave her his nicest smile, even though his insides were cringing. Brady had been making these weekly visits to McGuire’s for over a year and he still hadn’t gotten used to the attention. It was always embarrassing.
She wiped her hands on her apron and leaned over the counter. “Come here, you!” She wrapped her skinny arms around him, squeezing hard, and he patted her on the back awkwardly in return.
A chorus of “oohs” and “aahs” reverberated throughout the bar.
“Oh, don’t you pay attention to them.” She waved a hand dismissively. “What can I get for you, honey? You want a sandwich, or maybe some soup? Navy bean today—Eddy makes the best ever.”
“No, thanks, Maggie, I’ll just have a pop.”
“Just a pop, always a pop,” she mumbled as she made her way to the cooler.
Brady sat up a little straighter in his stool and folded his hands in front of him, trying to act as casual as possible, when a voice boomed from clear across the bar. “Hey, Brady!” Jimmy shouted. “How old are you now? Sixteen? Seventeen?”
Here it comes. Brady smiled and played along. “Seventeen!” he yelled back.
Jimmy was the stereotypical loudmouth, all bark and no bite. He was the guy everybody rolled their eyes at, but secretly missed if he wasn’t around. He just provided too much entertainment.
“Hey! You find yourself a nice little lassie yet?” Jimmy howled in self-amusement, like he had said something everyone hadn’t heard a hundred times before.
Brady usually let Jimmy have his fun. Showing respect for the guys at McGuire’s was the smart thing to do, the only thing to do. But for some reason, that particular time, he decided to yell back, “Not yet, Jimmy, but what about you?!”
Apparently the guys thought that was hilarious, because a thunderous roar of laughter followed. Brady knew Jimmy was around fifty years old and had never been married. No shocker there.
“I told you, Brady, trouble, them girls,” he said, his deep voice dangerously close to a slur. “They be nothing but trouble.”
Maggie was back with a can of Coke. “Now don’t you let them boys get to you.” She poured some Coke into a glass with ice, and then said over her shoulder, loud enough for everyone to hear, “They just all wish they were young and handsome like you.”
Oh God, there was no end to it. His body automatically sank lower into his chair, and he felt the heat in his cheeks burn into a full-on flush.
Quinn raised his bottle of beer. “To Brady!” he proclaimed. “You know we love ya, kid!”
The rest of the guys followed, raising their bottles, cans and glasses in unison. “Hear, hear! To Brady!”
Then Quinn added, “And if you ever do find a little lady, I got one piece of advice for you—don’t ever bring her in here!”
Laughter erupted once again as the guys nodded to each other in agreement.
Brady managed a tight smile and reciprocated the gesture, holding his glass of Coke in the air. “Thanks, guys! Especially for all of the great advice!”
These weekly visits were tortuous, but it was all just part of the job. Business was business. At six o’clock on Thursdays, at McGuire’s Pub on Bridge Street, Brady O’Connell was the most important person in the world—the big cheese, the top dog, the king shit.
He sipped his pop, reached into his pocket, and reminded himself that it would all be over soon.
CHAPTER 2
Busting through the back door, Brady stepped over the huge pile of dirty clothes in the laundry room. “Dad! I’m back!” He made his way into the kitchen and went straight for the bag of Lay’s on the counter.
“Hey! Don’t be eating my stuff! Take your own!” Shit. It was like his dad was telepathic.
“Okay…fine.” He grabbed a bag of Doritos instead and headed to his bedroom.
While getting a big slap on the back from one of the guys at McGuire’s, he had also gotten a big dousing of Miller Lite. He scanned the floor for a shirt and found a crumpled-up flannel in the clean pile. He had never gotten used to the idea of folding his own clothes, let alone putting them away in drawers. Pointless. The ‘clean pile-dirty pile’ system worked just fine for him
Besides, Dad didn’t really care what his room looked like, as long as he kept his door shut. Other than fighting over snacks, which had resulted in the ‘my snack-your snack’ system, they made good roommates.
Mom and Dad had gotten divorced when Brady was thirteen. One day at the dinner table, his mom had just broken the news, as casually as if she was talking about the weather. “Jennifer, Brady,” she’d said calmly. “Your father and I love you very much, and this decision is extremely hard for us. But we have decided to get a divorce.”
Boom. Ka-pow.
Brady’s jaw dropped, mid-chew, kernels of corn falling from his bottom lip. What? What did she just say?
He immediately looked over at his dad, head down, shoveling another spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.
Jen spoke first. “What do you mean? Why?” The shock in her voice made Brady’s heart sink further. His sixteen-year-old sister was obviously as clueless as he was.
It didn’t make sense. Mom and Dad seriously didn’t argue about anything. Everything seemed fine. Everything was fine.
Mom sighed. “It’s complicated, and I don’t expect you to fully understand it, but people change and feelings change. It’s just not easy to explain…it’s complicated.”
“So, that’s it?” Brady could feel a swell of anger rising up inside of him—toward his mom. He glared at her with all the intensity he could muster. “That’s all you have to say?” He saw the surprise in her eyes, but he didn’t care. “So let me get this straight. Dad almost, like, dies…” His voice cracked and he took a deep breath. “And he’s…” He couldn’t get the words out. “And now you’re just going to leave him?!”
Dad slammed his fist on the table, his good fist. “Brady! Watch it!” He pointed his fork in warning. “You don’t talk to your mother that way.”
Brady raised his hands in the air. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t get it!” He waited for some kind of explanation, but his parents just exchanged glances.
He couldn’t believe his dad wanted this—it wasn’t possible. “So, Dad, you’re okay with this?”
His dad sighed heavily. “Brady, it’s what we both feel is best.”
Oh my God, the clichés just keep on coming. He looked over at Jen, who seemed resigned to the bullshit announcement. Her eyes were on her plate, but he could see a single tear dripping down her cheek.
“Best!? For who?” he shouted. And he pushed himself away from the table and ran for the stairs.
When Brady looked back on that time, it was a pretty typical scenario: parents tell kid they’re getting a divorce, kid freaks out, then kid mopes around for weeks giving parents the silent treatment.
Maybe if his parents had fought, or even raised their voices once in a while, he wouldn’t have been so shocked. But there had been no screaming or yelling, no mean glares or tense silence.
In fact, things had seemed much better since the accident. Dad didn’t have to work the long hours at the steel plant anymore, and they all got to spend more time together. Shit, they even did family game night. Everything had seemed fine, and that was why the big reveal felt like such a brutal punch in the gut.
Brady quickly learned an undeniable truth: parents can be masters of façade. Kids have no clue what’s actually going on between good ol’ Mom and Dad. If he learned anything from the divorce, he learned that.
Dad moved into a little bungalow on the other side of Fulton. Brady and Jen would visit him every Wednesday and Saturday. Dad would order a pizza and they all would sit around and Netflix binge. Jen would clean Dad’s bathroom and he would give her twenty bucks. She was definitely getting ripped off.
This went on for a few weeks and things seemed okay, but every time Brady had to leave his dad, he got a sick feeling in his stomach. His dad always put on a happy face and acted like he was fine, but Brady knew he was miserable. Who wouldn’t be? His wife had divorced him—yes, Brady would bet his Xbox it was all Mom’s decision. He hobbled around with a limp and had enough prescription bottles in his bathroom to fill a pharmacy. He couldn’t work anymore, and he was too proud to go out and see any of his old work buddies. He was alone—completely and totally alone.
Brady had made up his mind. He would move in with Dad—it was the perfect arrangement for both of them. He could help Dad out and keep him company, and Brady would have more freedom without Mom always in his face.
At first, both Mom and Dad had resisted the idea.
Dad said, “Brady, you don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine. You should stay with your mother.”
Mom asked, “Brady, who will do your laundry? Remind you about homework?”
Not very strong arguments. For one, he was an A/B student, and two, doing laundry didn’t seem exactly mind-bending. He knew his mom was sad about it, but she still had Jen at home. And she also had Tony, her new boyfriend, who she had tried very unsuccessfully to keep under the radar.
It wasn’t long before Brady was packing up his things and moving in with Dad. Four years later, it was still working out great.
Brady went into his dad’s office and found him in the usual spot. He was sitting at his desk with his back to the door, staring out the dirty bay window. His shoulders slumped to the left, his right hand twiddling a pen between his fingers. He always appeared deep in thought. “Everybody show?”
“Yep.” Sometimes there was a no-show at McGuire’s, but it was rare.
A small tuft of Dad’s silver hair stuck out over the high-back chair. He had been gray as long as Brady could remember, and he wasn’t that old—forty-nine. A few years ago, Brady had casually asked at what age he had started looking like Colonel Sanders. That was a big mistake.
“Well, when you’re thirty, and all of your friends are going bald, you will be going gray, but you will still have your hair. See?” He stuck his hand in his thick, bushy hair and messed it up.
“And guess what else, smart-ass? You can put stuff in your hair and make it any color you want—black, blond, hell, you can make it goddamn purple, but at least you’ll have your hair! You’ll be thanking me!”
Brady was sorry he had asked.
Collapsing into the La-Z-Boy, he put his feet up. “What you looking at?”
“You know, that jackass is out there every day,” Dad muttered. “Honest to God.”
Brady looked out across the street and saw Mr. Davis kneeling down in his front lawn. He was tending to his pride and joy—his grass. The summer had been brutal, and while most sane people had surrendered their straw-like grass to the perpetual falling of leaves and acorns, Mr. Davis had not. His lawn was as green as the neon sign hanging outside McGuire’s bar.
Dad sighed. “Anyway, no problems, then?” Back to business.
“No problems. Everyone says hi.” Brady grabbed the remote and started flipping through channels. “That Sutton guy, he’s interesting.”
All of the regulars at McGuire’s fit into a pretty standard mold: blue-collar guys going to the local watering hole after a hard day’s work. But Sutton was different; he was always dressed in a suit, drank imported beer, and drove a Lexus.
Dad turned in his swivel chair, his left leg dragging slightly behind his right. “Yeah, he’s got money—some hotshot lawyer.”
“Where’d he come from?”
“Remember Lonnie?”
“Yeah, he hasn’t been at McGuire’s in forever.”
“That’s because he got one DUI too many. Sutton was his lawyer. Must’ve heard about me through him.” Dad added, “But Sutton’s a good customer. One of those guys who thinks he’s smarter than the rest of us. Wish I had more like him.”
Brady reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a stack of white envelopes. “Well, he didn’t stay long. He’s always in and out.” He fingered through the envelopes. “I don’t think McGuire’s is his kind of establishment.”
Dad laughed. “Well, he better get used to places like that. The way he’s going, he won’t be hanging out at those fancy country clubs much longer. Let me see his envelope.”
Brady handed him the envelope with ‘Sutton’ written in red ink across the front. “No indeed.” Dad pulled out the small stack of crisp green bills and fanned them out in his hand. “Not when you’re dishing out a grand a week.”
