The Grayson Chronicles

"Unfortunately, there is no mistake," Millie said, closing the file. The public defender, slumping back in her leather-cracked chair, looking as weary as Grayson felt. Millicent “Millie” Burch, Grayson’s court-appointed lawyer, stared at her client and his mother, thinking of how to put a positive spin on current events. The judge found Grayson guilty of battery and that meant a hefty fine of $500. The other guy was drunk and threw the first punch. Grayson reciprocated as expected. Grayson had a temper and if he allowed the guy to keep egging him on, it would have ended badly. Very badly. The court fine was money he didn’t have. Millie’s summation of Grayson’s fate wasn’t a death knell but definitely illustrated the light years from where Grayson had wanted to be at this stage in his life.

God, what happened to me? Grayson thought.

Grayson ran his hands through his stubble, rough and patchy. More gray hair had been coming in lately. He was exhausted. He felt old.  Beads of sweat trickled down his right side as if his armpit sprung a leak. The bodily fluid slowly crept past his waistband. Jesus it’s hot, he thought. The faded khakis and white shirt he wore, borrowed from his brother, summed up Grayson’s life. Drab and colorless. Grayson didn’t own any nice clothes. The scant income he made running the register at the local Piggly Wiggly was just enough to keep the lights on in his mother’s small, clapboard house and keep food on the table.

I’m 22 and still living at home. Still sleeping in the same damn double bed I got for my 12^th birthday. Where did my life take such a wrong damn turn? Feeling the anger welling up in his chest, he dug his nails into his palms, knowing he had to keep his anger tamped down. That piercing pain kept Grayson focused.

Then he remembered Tina. Dirty blond, too-much-blue eye shadow, and hips-to-die-for Tina. She had supple, crimson-tinged lips that screamed: “kiss me fool!” Grayson did that and so much more. He couldn’t get enough of Tina and she was more than generous with her affection.  Unfortunately, one steamy summer Georgia evening, and after one too many Jack and Cokes, Tina got pregnant. They tried to make it work for the sake of the kid but Tina was too headstrong and money became an issue. There was never enough of it to go around. Tina took up with a wealthy, Big Boy franchisee named Dirk Dobber. What kind of name was Dirk Dobber? Grayson laughed quietly to himself. It sounded like a porn star.

Feeling the anger surging upwards into his chest, he did a mental exercise that always calmed him down. Breathe Grayson. Just breathe. In. out. In. out. Grayson steadied his breath and felt his heart rate return to normal.

He slowly looked to his left. His mother Martha was softly sobbing into her off-white handkerchief. At least it used to be white, but now it was sort of a stained, putty color as if it had seen one too many days absorbed in tears then never washed. Wearing her only good dress, a short-sleeved pink button-down with a floral print, his mother’s generous figure splaying out of the narrow metal sides of the chair, like too much melted cheese spilling over the sides of a grilled sandwich. Her beefy arms bursting forth from the sleeves begging to be set free. Too many biscuits and gravy, Grayson smirked to himself. The dress, strewn with God-awful bay blue flowers strategically dotting her chest, quivering as if in empathy with her grief, as she cried.

Jesus, she can really put on a show, Grayson thought.

Grayson hated that dress. His mom wore it for his step-father Beau’s funeral about two years after his unfortunate disappearance.  Well, the term “funeral” is generous. Less of a service and more like a prayer and a few flowers sprinkled into Crisman Lake. It was only Grayson, his brother Jude and his mother present because there was no body to bury.  No one came to pay respects to Beau, not neighbors, friends or his co-workers. Martha was lucky the sheriff could declare Beau legally dead so at least she would get a little insurance money to help raise the boys.

Hopewell was a small town, population 1,892 (1,891 now) so gossip spread like an oil spill.  There was whispering around town that Beau wasn’t dead but that he took off with his sister-in-law Della because no one had seen her in several years. Plus, there had been no reports of accidents since the night Beau disappeared. Martha was comfortable with that thought. No one could ever learn the truth about what Grayson was capable of doing.

Grayson’s step-father, Beauford “Beau” Luke Gossett, was a powerhouse of a man, gentle and loving but give him too much of the Devil’s juice (as Martha called his whiskey and ryes), he became as mean as an Eastern Diamondback that hadn’t eaten in six months and was hunting for his next victim. Beau loved his wife, Martha, and his instant family, boys Grayson, then 10 years-old and his youngest son, Jude, but in his own way. He worked and provided for the family as best he could but he was fighting his own wretched demons, Grayson’s mother would say. Demons that gripped his mind and soul, threatening to swallow him whole and causing overwhelming agony. When that got to be too much, Beau sank deeper into the bottle and lashed out at the family almost daily. He would put his fists thru walls. Better a wall than my head, Grayson thought. His step-father would throw furniture, pots, anything within arm’s reach and sometimes poor Martha’s face would get in the way. Beau always cried and apologized, begging his wife’s forgiveness. Until the next time it happened.

And there was always a next time.

Grayson grew exhausted by the incessant tension and toxicity in the house. He didn’t know how much more of it he could take. His mother’s crying. Beau’s drinking and violent tendencies. Grayson walked around with this smothering sense of impending doom, like a weighted blanket from which he could not free himself.

Something bad was coming. He could smell it.

**************************

It was a Friday in late October. Grayson’s 12^th birthday was the following week. Birthdays really held no meaning in his house. There was never enough money for a party and never enough friends to invite. Grayson pondered his pathetic set of life circumstances as he walked home from school on that cold and dark afternoon.  Thankfully, this was an early day due to a teacher’s conference. He went to the door, his key at the ready, when he stopped cold. Sweaty, pig-like grunts met his ears with a rush. Moans from his parents’ bedroom punctured the still cold October air. How odd, Grayson thought. His step-father should be at work and his mother was down at the church helping out with preparations for Saturday’s potluck.

Grayson listened closer, the steel-frame door like ice against his ear.  That was definitely his father’s heavy, asthmatic snorts. Growing up, before life turned dark in the house, his parents were always lovingly going at it in the bedroom. Grayson and Jude would stay out in the yard and play until the act came to a crashing climax and the smell of cigarette smoke slowly drifted out of his parents’ bedroom window. But this time was different. The accompanying squeal of pleasure sounded almost child-like and definitely NOT his mother’s voice. He listened closer. “Oh Beau, give it to me good. Harder! Faster!” Grayson knew that voice. An airy high-pitched southern lilt. The kind of voice that would rattle your teeth if you listened long enough. It was his aunt Della! 

The binge-drinking was insult enough. His step-father’s verbal assaults he became numb to but this was low even for Beau. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t let his father disrespect his mother like this. After all she had done for him. That bastard! That mud-wallowing, good-for-nothing pig! Grayson fumed, his white-hot anger welling up inside. Feeling one of his headaches begin to surface, he used the trick his mother taught him.

Breathe Grayson. Just breathe. In. Out.

At the moment this was an exercise in futility. Pointless. Worthless. It did nothing for him. He suffered from these headaches when he was incredibly angry. And, boy was he pissed right now!  But these white-hot stabs of pain felt different. It started as a low-drumbeat, moving into a louder and faster staccato until he felt as if someone placed a never-ending supply of Chinese firecrackers in his ears. Pop! PopPoP! Poppity Pop! Grayson was almost blinded by the pain.

Grayson pushed thru the front door and sprinted toward the bedroom. Pure rage drove him to crash through the bedroom door. Beau, hair disheveled and sweaty, flapping around his face, looking like a lion mounting his partner at the height of her heat, stopped mid-thrust. Della, pissed that her pleasure was so rudely interrupted, paused and looked up at Grayson with her mouth falling open in a cartoonish way. The bedroom air, reeking of Old Spice, bourbon and sweat, tinged Grayson’s nostrils. Beau shocked at the realization that there was no way to explain his back-door position, tried to say something, anything, but nothing came out. Grayson stared at them both and his head pounded harder and harder.

Pop! Poppity Pop! Pop!

Grayson reached out his hands and glared at his step-father as if wanting to reduce him to a smoldering pile of ash on the spot. Hands clenched and straining, knuckles white, Grayson twisted his fists in Beau’s direction allowing the anger to work for him. Grayson closed his eyes channeling that fury from his head, down through his heavily-veined and quickly engorged arms, and into his hands. The windows shook violently then imploded, glass flying and landing on the bedroom floor like a pool of crushed diamonds. The walls trembled and the floor heaved and sighed. Then a loud Whoosh! Grayson released his hands with an outward force as if flinging an immovable object out of his way as easily as tossing a rag doll aside.  The last he heard from his step-father was a squeaky plea “Gray, please no!! Then silence and darkness.

Grayson dropped to the floor from sheer exhaustion, his hands landing on the broken glass. Bleeding from his palms and sweat dripping into his eyes and pooling around his knees, Grayson tried to stand but couldn’t. Squinting through the dust-filled air, he could barely breathe. Grayson could hear his blood pumping in his ears. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. His head, still throbbing though muted, drumbeats of pain started to subside. Beau was gone. Vanished. Never to be seen again. Not a wisp of his stringy hair was seen nor the smell of his flop sweat. Even Della’s backside, still pink from Beau’s meaty handprints, was quickly returning to a flesh tone. The uneven mattress, recently embedded with his fat knees, was left flat and even again. Della, on all fours, statue-like, looked at Grayson and screamed, her shrill voice sounding like a tea kettle in need of attention. Della’s eyes were filled with a mix of horror, fear and confusion. One moment she was being deliciously ridden by her lover and the next, he was gone. Shaking uncontrollably and barely able to speak, Della backed out of the room, turned and ran screaming. Grayson tried to chase after her but was still weakened by his episode.

No witnesses, Grayson thought but he was powerless as he collapsed again on the cold glass-strewn floor.

Grayson never saw Della again.

Just breathe Grayson. In. Out. In. Out.

                                *************

“Grayson, did you hear what I said?” Millie pierced Grayson’s reverie. Grayson blinked several times as if to get his bearings. He glanced around the room, the walls dotted with framed newspaper clippings of past cases Millie had tried and won. As Public Defenders go, Millie knew her stuff. They actually went to high school together and were fairly friendly back then, Grayson remembers. But that’s where the fates had different plans for them both. Millie got a full ride to The University of Georgia then continued on to UGA’s Law School. A big-city firm was not who Millie was, though she was courted by several of them, including Chicago and New York. Too cutthroat and snooty, Millie once told him. Millie felt the need to return to her small town of Sloane Ridge and be the voice for those wayward citizens who couldn’t afford a lawyer to help them. Like Grayson. 

“Yes, I heard you,” Grayson said resignedly. “Five hundred dollars for the fine. Where am I gonna to get that kind of money Millie?” Millie softly sighed. He was right, she thought. Millie knew Grayson only made $10 an hour at the Piggly Wiggly and, while it was steady employment, it was not enough to allow for any kind of rainy day savings. He had child support, rent on his mother’s house and car payments on his used 1992 Chevy Pick-up truck. She studied Grayson’s weathered face, a little too weathered for someone that was only 22 years old. Millie, her faded leather chair squeaking like a tiny country mouse, leaned back and ticked off possible scenarios.

 “Let me talk to opposing counsel and see if we can get the charge reduced to a drunk and disorderly charge. Fingers crossed, the judge can lower the fine to $100. It’s your first offense and the guy who assaulted you was hammered. You were just defending yourself. He knows he doesn’t have a case so he’s just posturing. Maybe you can be put on a payment plan with a little due every month. The judge may be willing to do that in conjunction with some type of community service.”  Grayson perked up at the prospect of a lesser fine. Community service? Hell yeah! Sign me up. I’ll collect garbage along the roads and help out in the church soup kitchen, Grayson mused. Grayson knew he couldn’t get away without some type of punishment but he had confidence that Millie would do right by him.

Martha cried even louder, but these were happy tears. Her boy didn’t have to go to prison. Martha knew prison was the absolute wrong place for Grayson to be right now. His powers were becoming stronger. Putting him in an enclosed cell with other men and their own anger issues was a powder keg waiting to be lit. Martha knew it and so did Grayson but they tried not to speak of it.

Besides, Martha had her own plans for Grayson’s gift.