Sanderson Residence

ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring

click

“Sanderson residence.”

“Hi, Mrs. Sanderson. It’s Chuck. Can I speak to Roger?”

“Hello, Charles. Not sure he’s here—roGER! CHARles! Oh, he is here. Hang on.”

rustle, phh, phh, phh, clack 

“Got it, Mom. Hey, Chuck. What’s up?”

“Jesus, Rog, I think your mom blew out my eardrum.”

“Yeah, she does that. Mom, I said you can hang up now!”

click, click

“Crap. Did she hear me, Rog?”

“Heh, heh, yeah, man. You’re off her Friday night meatloaf list now, dude.”

“Thank god for that, heh, heh.”

“Wish I could be. Anyway, what’s up, Chuck?”

phhh, click, psshh

“You still there, Chuck? I’m pretty busy?”

“Your mom off for sure?”

“Totally. Mom respects my privacy.”

“Okay. So. l’ve got this problem. A sensitive problem.”

“Yeah? Sensitive? I told you, like, go buy some more underwear if you can’t do laundry. It’s gross to be wearing it inside out and shit.”

“Hilarious, dude. No. Remember 9th grade?”

“Wish I didn’t.”

“Remember when that Howie kid tripped me in the hall every day?

“Yeahhh. That royally sucked.” 

“And how, like, after two weeks he showed up dead in the creek, and after they questioned the whole school, the police ruled it accidental?”

“Yeahhh…”

“Well, it wasn’t.” 

“What do you mean, Chuck.”

“It was me.”

“Hardy har har. So NOT funny, dipstick. Can I tell you how sick I am of your lame bullshit?”

“No joke, Rog. I was just so over it. I told him if he’d leave me alone, I had a mongo joint for him and to meet me by the spray-painted boulder at midnight. I hid behind a tree with a big rock, and BAM. Then I dumped him in the water.”

crackle, hiss, pop, rustle

“Wait, like, for real?”

“Swear on my life, dude. Man, been waiting a long time to tell you that.”

 “Jee-sus. I mean…jesus, Chuck. JESUS. Why are you fucking telling me this now? Or at all? I mean jesus FUCK! I didn’t need to know this!”

 “I need your help, Rog. Bad. Because it happened again. My tyrant boss.” 

“My…help? Hell to the no, man. Hanging up now. Got me? Not sure we should talk about this. Or talk. Ever again.”

“Wait—”

“Goodbye, Chuck. Have a nice life.”

click

~

ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring.

click

“Um, hello, Sanderson residence.”

“Hi Mrs. Sanderson, it’s Chuck. Can I talk to Roger again?”

“Charles. Well, Roger doesn’t want…I mean, Roger isn’t here.”

“Sounds a bit untrue, Mrs. Sanderson. Like, maybe even a lie. You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you, Mrs. Sanderson?”

“Charles. How dare you? Please, what is it you kids say now, ‘take a cold pill?’ He’s gone out for…a little walk, that’s all. It’s a beautiful day.”

“Oh? Where’d he go? Maybe I’ll join him.”

“I will have him call you when he gets back.”

click

ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring

click

“Chuck, I told you he will call you when he got back!”

“May I please speak to Mrs. Sanderson?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry. This is she. May I ask who’s calling?”

“This is Officer Jones from the Plainsville police department, ma’am. Sorry to call like this, but your son Roger is here telling us he has information about Howie Flank’s death. Some story about a phone call during which his friend, a one Charles Duncan, confessed to killing the poor boy.”

“Roger? Oh, he really did leave, I guess…”

“What was that?”

“Never mind. I’m so glad he’s there. This is all so frightening! What do you need from me?”

“Is there anything you can tell me to corroborate his story? We’d like to see if there’s anything we can hang our hats on here, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, I don’t…”

“This is just an informal call, ma’am, but if you don’t give us anything that matches his story, things may get very serious for your son Roger. False accusations, etc.” 

“I guess, well, I did overhear something.”

“When you say overhear, what do you mean?”

“Well, my son doesn’t tell me anything going on in his life, so, I take these little, teeny listens. Just to his end of the conversation. Once in a blue moon.” 

“Oh? Listening to his end of his private conversation? That’s not terribly useful in this case, Mrs. Sanderson.”

“Well, all right. Sometimes I listen on another line.”

“Really, Mrs. Sanderson?”

“You make it sound so…illicit. He doesn’t tell me anything. I’m just trying to keep tabs on my 20-year-old son when he’s home from college. Like any good mother.”

“Not illicit or illegal, but not particularly ethical, ma’am. So, were you listening on another line during this particular conversation?”

“Yes.”

 “And did Charles confess to murdering Howie?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us anything else that might prove you heard this call?”

“Yes, officer. Charles told my son he didn’t like my meatloaf and that he had recently killed his boss. In fact, that was why he was calling. Because he needed Roger’s help to deal with it somehow. The murder, not the meatloaf.”

“Can you confirm where Charles works?”

 “I think Blockbuster over on Main?”

“You think, or you know?”

“I know.”

“Did he or your son tell you that?”

“I heard it on one of their other phone calls.”

“So, when you say you listen in once in a while, that was a bit of a, how shall we say, under-exaggeration, correct? How often do you really listen in?”

“Whenever I…wait, why so much interest in my caring, mothering habits? Am I the one in trouble here?”

“Depends on what you mean by trouble. There are many kinds of trouble.”

“What?”

“I said, there are many kinds of trouble. Trouble with the law. Trouble with society. Family troubles, etc. This seems to fall under the latter, wouldn’t you say?

“What?”

“I mean, you listening in on your son’s private phone conversations, which, as I said earlier, isn’t strictly illegal, still indicates a lack of trust on your part. Why don’t you trust your son, Mrs. Sanderson?”

“You seem to have missed the point, sir. What does this have to do with the murders?”

“Why don’t you trust your son?”

“It’s not that I don’t trust him. It’s just…”

“It’s just what?”

“I’m worried he’ll… sir, can we get back to the matter at hand?”

“I need to pass you to someone. Please hold.”

phh, clack, shh

“Hi Mom.”

“Roger! Oh, Roger, I’m so worried about you! Is everything okay at the police station? Are they treating you—”

“I’m not at the police station. I’m with Chuck and Joe.”

“Oh, my god! Is he holding you both captive? Where? I need to hang up and call the police!”

“Mom, he didn’t do anything. We totally made it up, from hating your meatloaf to Howie tripping Chuck freshman year. Howie was a pipsqueak, and you’ve seen the Chuckroast.”

“So..no murders.”

“No murders.”

“And Officer Jones?”

“You know Joe is a theatre major right?”

“So, you…why?”

“Why do you think, Mom?”

“Roger Sanderson, this is, I mean it’s beyond the pale. You scared the life out of me! Explain yourself this minute! Why?”

“Okay. Because. Because I am sick to death of you prying, believing I’m no better than Dad. That somehow, I’ll fail you, leave you, or God forbid, do something that ruins my future. I am not my father. I am your son, and that means, other than the phone-snooping, I am going to turn out pretty damn well. I love you, Mother, but you need to let me have my own life. Or you will chase me away.”

“I love you too, Roger. Maybe I do go too far. Seems like you might have inherited that trait, considering this little prank. I’m not mad, though. I understand. It’d be good to talk. If only about all that swearing.”

“Hah. See you in a bit.”

“See you soon, sweetie.”

click