— You had fun on that trip.
— Your boyfriend hit me.
— Well, you two didn’t always see eye to eye.
— I was fifteen. Seeing eye to eye?
— How many times do I need to say sorry for that? It was twenty-five years ago.
— It was less than that.
— So what, Thomas? So what?
— So Mr. Hansen targeted me, knowing I had an addict for a mom. That’s how he could get away with it. He needed kids who had some kind of inadequate parental situation. Me, Don.
— Did he touch you, Thomas?
— Who?
— Mr. Hansen.
— He says he didn’t.
— Well then.
—“Well then”? “Well then”? You push me onto a highway, or off a bridge, and then if I come back alive, you say, Well then.
— Thomas, why don’t you unlock me and we can talk about straightening all this out? I can help you get out of here. I’m happy to take the blame for all this. I can tell the police it was my idea, that you weren’t here at all.
— That would be the most self-sacrificing thing you’ve ever done.
— Thomas, we have many more years together. We don’t have anyone else. We should look forward. You’re always looking backward, blaming and dissecting, and it’s hampered your ability to move ahead. You need to choose to look to the light.
— Listen to yourself! “Look to the light”? You’ve always had this bizarre mix — you’re so nasty, but then you spout these New Ageisms. Don’t give me advice.
— I want to be supportive. That’s all I want now. You know I’m better than I used to be. We can be partners.
— We won’t be partners. I don’t like you.
— We’re stuck with each other, Thomas.
— I’m not stuck with you. And you’re still using.
— It’s under control.
— That’s not possible.
— Thomas, I’ve had the same job for four years. Could I be doing that if I was out of control?
— You’re screwing the owner. I hear that you come into work twice a week.
— That is patently untrue.
— You always had situations like that, didn’t you? You’d screw some guy who could provide you with some kind of financial assistance or some kind of vague job on someone’s payroll. You did that at the hospital supply company.
— That was a legitimate job. I worked my ass off there. I hated that job but I did it.
— For a while you did. Maybe six months. Then you were on severance for a year.
— Is it my fault they gave me severance?
— A year’s severance for a half year’s work? Was that company policy?
— I have no idea.
— And still you dated that guy. Dalton. I can’t believe you brought a grown man named Dalton into our house.
— He took you to SeaWorld.
— You have an answer for every one of these guys. You act like every one of them was such a gift to my life.
— You were a lonely boy.
— I was a lonely boy? That’s the first time I’ve heard you say that. What does that mean?
— It means there was only so much I could do with you. You came out of the womb a certain way. You were always diffident. I tried to have you play with other kids but there was always some reason they didn’t appeal to you. You went off by yourself and then complained that you had no friends.
— You’re making this up.
— I’m trying to tell it to you straight. You want to blame me for everything, fine, but you were always a certain way. On your fourth birthday, you hid in the garage. At your eighth-grade graduation, you stayed in the parking lot, in the car, so I went alone. You never joined the big group activities. I would buy you tickets to everything, sign you up for everything, and you would stay home. How is that my fault? I put you in a position to be happy and you chose to be alone.
— I didn’t want to be alone.
— You drove people away. You tried to drive me away.
— I wish I’d been better at it.
— Then why didn’t you leave?
— Why didn’t I leave?
— Thomas, you lived at home till you were twenty-five.
— You lie. I left when I was twenty-two.
— For eight months. Then you came back.
— For a year.
— No, you came back for two years and eight months. You were twenty-five when you moved out for good. If I was so terrible why come back? Why stay with me so long?
—
— And you couldn’t keep a job. You know how easy it is for a white man to make money in this country? It’s like falling off a log. For so long I blamed myself for what happened to us. But all along I had a feeling there was something strange about you. And I know I’m right. You were born with certain tendencies, and I really don’t think I could have done anything to prevent them. I had a feeling something like this would happen.
— Of course you did.
— You had extreme tendencies. People thought you were gentle and lonely and harmless but I knew a different side of you. When you were seven you choked me. You remember that?
— I didn’t choke you.
— You did. This was just after your father left. It was at that rich kid’s house. His family had a lot of money. You remember this kid?
— How would I remember something like that?
— I don’t know where they got their money, something fishy, but they were sweet to you. He used to have you over to play after school, and he had a playroom and a million toys. They knew I was alone and working so they said you could come over anytime. You don’t remember this? They lived on the lake.
— Fine.
— There was one time I picked you up. I used to come to their house and get you after work. And always it was a hassle to get you to leave, but no more than any kid leaving any friend, I figured. But this time you were really resisting. You wouldn’t come, and I was standing there in the doorway to the kid’s room, with his mom, just trying to chat and be casual while trying to get you to put on your jacket and come with me. But you wouldn’t move. I think you thought maybe I’d just leave and let you live there. I mean, it made no sense because obviously you have to leave at some point. So finally it starts getting embarrassing, and the mom, I can’t remember her name, something like Aureola, she says she has to get something in the kitchen or something. She knew I might need some time alone with you. So she left, and she brought her son with her. Then it was just you and me alone in his room. And I got down on my knees and brought you close to me, and I whispered in your ear that we needed to go. I used to do that in public, get you close and whisper sort of urgently in your ear when you were misbehaving. And so I cupped my hand around your ear and whispered a few choice things about us needing to leave, you embarrassing us, how you’d be punished if you didn’t comply, and then I backed up a bit to look into your eyes and make sure you understood, and that’s when this look came over your face and you tried to strangle me.
— I did not.
— But you did. Why else would I remember it twenty-five years later? You put your hands around my neck and squeezed. I don’t even know where you learned how to do that. I’d never been so scared. Just the look in your eyes! It was pure hatred, pure evil. But then you held on. You were so strong and I couldn’t get your hands off me and then your eyes went dull, like a snake’s when it’s got something in its jaws. You know how they have some mouse in their jaws but their eyes stay open and seem so far away? That was the look you had.
— You’re making all of this up.
— So finally I got free, and I spanked you, and you still struggled. I had to carry you out kicking and screaming. You scratched my face and it took a month to heal. I mean, this was terrifying. Can you imagine? You never went back to that house. I was too embarrassed to let them have you over. From then on I always had an inkling you were capable of something like this. Capable of anything.