The Padlock

Tristan was sitting at his desk when he heard Jordy pull into the driveway. He had been doing his homework, and still had more to do (much thanks to his history teacher, who seemed to never stop assigning work), but stopped at the sound of Jordy’s old Volkswagen. It was only half an hour past their flimsy curfew, and Mom wasn’t even supposed to be home yet. But she was -- she’d been let off her day job early -- and Tristan knew that there would be no chance of focusing once she and Jordy started screaming at each other. 

He stared through the window, which his mother had padlocked shut in an attempt to keep him from escaping. Not that he’d ever tried it -- he wasn’t stupid enough to run away at fifteen -- but she had always been paranoid, and Tristan wasn’t stupid enough to argue with her, either. 

Jordy’s not stupid, though, he thought, frowning. He just likes to start shit.

But that wasn’t entirely true. While Tristan preferred to believe that Jordy just enjoyed watching their mom get riled up, he knew that his brother was not that kind of person -- at least, not with Mom.

Suddenly, the yelling began, and Tristan got up to close his door.

“You wouldn’t have gotten that piece of trash if I hadn’t been working, you lazy son of a bitch!” 

“I bought that car with the money I earned from my job!”

Tristan hovered for a second in the doorway, wondering if his mom had a rebuttal -- and was slightly disappointed to hear her simply call Jordy a piece of shit. He closed his door and lied down on his bed, hands folded on his stomach.

“If you actually paid attention, we wouldn’t be having this conversation!” said a muffled Jordy, and Tristan frowned again. Their mom rarely listened to reasonable arguments; oftentimes they made things worse. 

The problem with Jordy, in Tristan’s opinion, was that he wished for something impossible. He wished things could go back to how they were eleven years before, when things were actually somewhat peaceful in the Vergara household. When instead of shouting matches every other night, they watched Jeopardy together after dinner. 

It had ended too soon, Tristan had to admit, but it was over. Their dad was gone, and if he had any intention of coming back, he would have by now. There was no point in trying to put a puzzle back together if it was missing a piece. 

Something crashed in the kitchen and Tristan flinched, then blushed at himself in embarrassment. 

“Tristan, come here!” his mom shouted.

He sighed and pushed himself off the bed. He moved as quietly as possible -- a skill he’d mastered during the years of walking on eggshells around his father -- and joined his brother and mom in the kitchen. They were standing on opposite sides of the room, Jordy with his hands behind his head and Mom with her hands on her hips, both glaring at each other. On the ground between them was a shattered water glass that Tristan assumed had been thrown, most likely by his mom.

Jordy glanced at Tristan and let out a short, frustrated sigh. “Don’t bring him into this, Mom, he has nothing to do with it.”

“Tristan,” their mom said, ignoring Jordy, “I want you to clean up this mess.”

The boy trudged across the room and began picking up the shards of broken glass without a word.

“See? He listens when I tell him to do something. What’s wrong with you?”

“That’s because you’ve scared him into submission!” Jordy exclaimed. “If you cared about either of us, you’d clean up your own mess instead of forcing him to do it!”

Tristan glanced up at his brother in annoyance. He wasn’t scared. He was tired. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the consequences, it was that he just didn’t have the energy to fight back anymore. 

Yet another difference that you’ll never seem to understand, Tristan thought, resuming his cleaning. You care too much.

“I’ve never forced either of you to do anything for me! All I’ve ever asked you to do is get a damn job!”

“And I did!” Jordy yelled, voice cracking slightly. “I got a job. I get good grades. And I take care of Tristan, which is already more than you --”

“I spend every second of my day doing things for you and for your brother,” said Mom, voice terrifyingly steady. “Every damn second.”

The room was suddenly very cold, even though the windows hadn’t been opened since April. Tristan finished cleaning up the glass and sat down at the kitchen table, wondering how Jordy was going to recover -- but he had a feeling he already knew.

“You’re never around for him, Mom,” said Jordy. “When Dad left, it was like you did, too.”

There it was. The patronizing sympathy, the condescending pity that came in cliches -- it never got old for Jordy, somehow. There wasn’t a conversation when he didn’t throw it in. He was always so sorry for poor baby Tristan, he always felt so heartbroken over the way the baby brother was treated by Dad and now by Mom, too. 

I’m not a toddler, Tristan wanted to say. We’re only two years apart. If you can survive, so can I.

Yet another problem with Jordy: he was too willing to fight other people’s battles, even (especially) if they didn’t ask for help. 

It pissed Tristan off, the way Jordy wanted nothing more than to protect him. It shouldn’t have, but it did. Tristan had ruined Jordy’s life, after all. He’d ruined all of their lives. He had only been eight, but that was hardly an excuse. Eight-year-olds should be old enough to know when and how to keep a secret. But even back then, when their dad hit Jordy instead of him; even when Tristan said the words that tore the family apart; even on the very day their dad never came back from work -- Jordy comforted him. 

Maybe that was why Tristan hated his brother so much -- because Jordy wasn’t angry at him.

“But I didn’t leave,” said their mom, voice rising as she resumed her previous rage. “I wasn’t the one that left! I stayed to help you two!”

“And I’m saying that you’re not helping!”

“Well neither are you! You shouldn’t be spending the money you earn on new cars or boyfriends! It should go to Tristan, so he can go to college!”

Just say it, Tristan thought painfully. ‘So he doesn’t end up like us.’

“But what about me?” Jordy fired back. Tristan looked up at his sudden change in tone; it sounded like Jordy was finally demanding something for himself. 

Their mom chuckled, and Jordy shrank into himself a bit. Tristan looked back down and began inspecting the table once more, ashamed at his discomfort with his mom’s cruelty. 

“You wanna know the truth, Jordy?” she said cooly. “I’ve given up on you.”

The room was even colder this time. Tristan didn’t have to look at his brother to know that he was fighting hard against the lump in his throat. 

Jordy walked across the room and grabbed his keys.

“Where the hell are you going?” said their mom, and got no response.

He left the door open behind him. Tristan heard the car pull out of the driveway, and saw the headlights pass through the window.

Mom sighed and leaned against the wall. She glanced at Tristan.

“Jesus. I can’t believe that kid.”

Tristan met eyes with her. “Don’t look at me. You’re both in the wrong.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong! He’s the one that started it, coming home late.”

Grow up. You sound like a child.

-- is what Tristan wanted to say, but instead, he stood up and said, “Whatever. Just saying you could have handled things better.”

His mom straightened up and glared at him. “Don’t you start with me, now.”

But Tristan was already halfway down the hall, and now he was the one fighting to keep himself from crying.