Why The Willow Weeps (IV) - Conclusion* (414 hits)
Category: GeneralRating: 1.4 on 10 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by r0fl (View user info) at 2006-08-21 21:36:43 EDT
*I tried something different here with the order of the story after watching Momento the other night. Read Part I first if you can, and if you like it, go on down the line. If you read this one first, you'll miss out. Enjoy.
Part I: http://www.ubersite.com/m/91274
Part II: http://www.ubersite.com/m/91715
Part III: http://www.ubersite.com/m/91806
August 3rd, 1999
Late morning
He could remember the day vividly, the day he and Denise bought their doorknocker; the day they had officially - besides the wedding and all that good stuff - become a complete couple.
The symbolism behind their doorknocker was nothing out of the ordinary: just an ornate assembly of brass arms, holding hands at the center. They had purchased it at local craftsmen's store. The shop also created custom ceiling fans and other household fixtures.
He could still remember the look in her eyes, fan blades alternating behind her in a kaleidoscopic vision of wood and metal - satisfied with her union and future with the men she grew to love.
She had been wearing one of his long-sleeve button-up shirts. It was a navy blue shirt, with plaid red stripes, the left side tucked into her dungarees. He always loved when she was willing to venture out in public in a display as such, it was more of a signal to the public: Yeah, so what? I'm wearing his shirt from yesterday... and I'm his.
They purchased the doorknocker on the spot, she insisted. Darren didn't really care, after all, you could use your knuckles like the Big Guy Upstairs meant to, before doorknockers were crafted out of God-knows-what for God-knows-how-much.
At this moment, that vaguely familiar memory rushed back to him, as the knocker repeatedly was slammed against itself, something that hadn't occurred in years. People used their knuckles out here. At least, neighbors, friends... people you generally expected.
Officer McKee, on his sixth month on the force, however, was unexpected.
He knocked again, Darren Szetela unwilling to open their authentic Oak-wood door, unwilling to hear the news. He slowly opened the door, its hinges creaking for maintenance and affection in this house where the boys and Denise and their parrot, Lamda demanded.
"Mr. Szetela?" Thomas McKee answered, staring eye-to-eye with Darren. The tone of his voice suggested he ran this greeting through his head all the way home from Williamsburg, from the crime scene in his Ford. He ran it through his mind, the tone, the questioning nature - it was Sunday morning, of all mornings, the Sabbath - up the freshly paved asphalt driveway and past the marigold patches. He had practiced it twice before he reached for the doorknocker after deciding against the door itself; incorrectly assuming that a home with a doorknocker meant for it to be used.
"Yes sir, that's me, what's this all about?" Darren inquired, knowing full well that the paper he just read - which inevitably quenched his carpet's thirst for caffeine not a few minutes earlier - spoke of his sons and their camping-trip-gone-wrong.
"Mind if I come in sir? You best be sittin' down for this." He stated, cold, but caring, if there was such a thing. He had a king quality about him, one of a rookie on the force, one not corrupt by the proceedings of every day life on the beat, of the inhumanities that humans can be contributed to perpetrating. Sure, Darren replied, how do you take your coffee?
"Black's fine sir, thanks."
Officer McKee spoke of the story relayed to him on the way via dispatch and the boys that survived - of noises while they were camping and a 'trip' gone wrong. He told the story of broken knees, of mysterious lights, dismissing it mostly as hallucinations and conjecture. Boys are druggies, he'd stated - not buying much of anything.
"Is this about what I think it's about, in the paper?" Darren asked, knowing full well the answer. But sometimes, on this God-forsaken Sunday, you had to ask the obvious questions. You had to ask them when this policeman, obviously new to the job, was beating around the fucking bush.
"Yes sir, 'fraid so," he replied, sipping his black coffee. His official-police-mustache dipped into the black liquid - he'd no doubt taste that the whole way home, the taste of the Szetela man's coffee. Black's fine sir. Thanks.
Darren thought back to a story he'd told his boys - about the recluse veteran, knowing full well that it was involved.
Officer McKee continued between sips, trying to wake up himself - shift change occurred soon enough and he would be able to go home himself, to his dog Winston, the best dog in the world. He would feed him his canned food mixed with bacon fat as he ate a makeshift breakfast, and crawl to the futon in his condo and sleep soundly. Well, not as soundly as he would have, if he wasn't dispatched and listened to the bullshit the kids in the back of his cruiser kept spouting the entire drive home.
"We'll be keeping an eye on the two that survived," he continued, trailing off slightly. His voice suggested it was merely a formality... that they really weren't, but he was saying it because he was supposed to.
The faux-tiled floor curled up in the corners of the kitchen, as Darren began to stare into space, wondering what happened last night camping. They had gone camping frequently, especially with the O'Connells, and nothing has happened since. Sure, they came home last time and their car smelled of hash - but that's what kids did sometimes - fuck, he'd lived through Woodstock and told about it whenever he could. But this was something you didn't want to wake up to on a Sunday morning after bladder problems, that's for sure.
"Well," Darren said, "...what can you tell me?"
McKee stared at him, with his large green Irish eyes, mustache bathed in caffeine and coffee. "What I can tell you," he began, "...is that something went wrong. We're keeping an eye on them. Most likely, they're fine, they won't have any problems, and local police and investigators will hopefully get a handle on this. This hasn't been the first time this has happened, as you well know if you've read the paper this morn'."
Darren shrugged, knowing full well that the carpet stain in the living room confirmed that. He also recalled the incident that occurred decades earlier, of a missing man around the same area. It wasn't two men, no, but missing nonetheless. Around the same time, too. The papers had run the same type of stories - the reason his stomach had been turned right-side-in after being turned inside-out early this morning, and nothing really coming out of it.
McKee's freshly shined shoes reflected the morning sun off his toes. Those boots probably haven't seen real work in weeks, Darren Szetela thought, and now this prick has the balls to bring this to my doorstep on Sunday morning?
Anger, welling in his veins now, raced through, flooding up into his eyes. They became bloodshot, mumbling "...anything concrete you can show me?"
"Yeah Mr. Szetela, sure. I brought you're boys, carefully. They're in the backseat. I'da been here sooner," he said, apologetically, "but I was careful on the roads, not to upset them."
Darren's heart skipped what seemed like a week's worth of beats, finally kick-starting again when he looked out the window, just seeing the outline of the Crown Victoria.
"Why didn't you say so?" he said, almost sobbing, "Take me to 'em!"
The grown men, one sobbing, the officer on the brink - left the house, down the newly paved asphalt, pasted the marigold patches and towards the cream and navy colored Ford. Two boys, motionless in the backseat called out to Darren.
Tears welled up in his eyes, as Officer McKee opened the door.
Adam Szetela ran out, hugged his father, sobbing controllably. His brother followed, tears falling to the ground before he could reach his dad.
They embraced quickly, forcefully. Officer McKee, who wished he were home with the best-dog-in-the-world, envied their embrace. Darren Szetela's grip tightened, the way you would tighten keys when you walked over a storm drain, the way you grabbed the restrains on a roller coaster.
"Thank you, thank you," Officer McKee heard through the barely audible sobs of the grown men, of the Szetela cluster on the freshly mowed and watered green lawn.
McKee hopped into his vehicle, after telling the family he'd be in touch for follow-up statements. The boys needed rest - he knew - and he would return later. For now, a can opener and the futon awaited.
The Szetela's walked into their house, the buzzing in the trees continuing, the birds chirping and feeding despite the anguish radiating from the household. Brandon headed upstairs to bed, exhausted. Adam poured himself a mug of coffee, and refilled his father's.
They sat at the table, the sun seeping through the kitchen, warming them, protecting them. Finally, Adam's father broke the silence.
"It's in the paper already, you know."
"I know dad, Brandon called the police, what were we supposed to do? He's young; we both know that." Adam replied matter-of-factly.
"Well, as long as the story's the same between the two of you, you should be fine." His dad replied, sipping from King-Of-What's-Left and waiting earnestly for Denise to wake up and start breakfast. She didn't wait on the family hand and foot - it wasn't her style - but on Sunday's her breakfasts were to die for.
Adam had told his father how they'd conned the O'Connells to digging the holes themselves, eliciting a chuckle.
"What's her name?" Darren Szetela, the man who'd lost himself in his wife's almond eyes decades ago, who'd found himself in a local craftsmen store years after, asked as he stared deep into his son's eyes. He recalled this question decades earlier, from his father to him: 'What's the broad's name, Darren?' Roland Szetela had said, and he stared at his father's large, gray eyes, ashamed.
Denise Maldonado, Darren had replied. His father chuckled, expecting a nice Polish girl; still old-fashioned you'd say. 'I guess the time's are a'changing" he had said - and instructed him what to do next. Instructed him not to go near the crime scene - that old house East of 2A, for years, and eventually make his move on Denise.
"Shelly, dad, her name is Shelly."
Darren Szetela then instructed his son not to go near Parker Thomas' house in the near future, and to call Shelly eventually, to console her, to eventually ask her to prom. If all goes well, he said, she'll be yours in no time.
Before he could finish, he clutched his abdomen in obvious distress.
"Are you OK dad, did I do anything wrong?"
"No son, just remember, when you get to be my age, see your doctor more. Mine's a fuckin' quack."
User Reviews
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-11-01 06:42:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by r0fl (user info) at 2006-11-01 01:26:41 (#)
Ranking: 2
Wish I could be around more man but the whole application process and school is kinda overwhelming - working on an idea for a contest, you down?
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Probably. Make a post about it.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-08-23 02:21:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Great finish.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-08-22 16:51:25 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by moneyshotforyou (user info) at 2006-08-21 21:37:49 (#)
Ranking: 2
Best thing ever written
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wow, I so disagree.
I could barely wade through this post - it's practically incomprehensible. Seriously, I read it three times, and still can't make head nor tail of it.
Honestly, I feel this deserved a -2, but you did put a fair amount of work into it.
Submitted by goferforhire (user info) at 2006-08-22 00:27:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Finished reading it, and I will say this.
You are badly underrated around here.
Submitted by r0fl (user info) at 2006-08-21 22:36:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by BubbaEarl (user info) at 2006-08-21 22:21:42 (#)
Ranking: 1
money's comment would hold more merit if he'd read more than the ramen recipe page.
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Completely agree. Did the order not work for you, Bub?
Submitted by BubbaEarl (user info) at 2006-08-21 22:21:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
money's comment would hold more merit if he'd read more than the ramen recipe page.
Submitted by r0fl (user info) at 2006-08-21 22:13:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Shit, I meant http://www.ubersite.com/m/91806#2101228
Submitted by r0fl (user info) at 2006-08-21 22:12:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Laika, I'm waiting. http://www.ubersite.com/cgi-bin/message_get.cgi?user_id=25284
Submitted by r0fl (user info) at 2006-08-21 21:57:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by moneyshotforyou (user info) at 2006-08-21 21:37:49 (#)
Ranking: 2
Best thing ever written
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Best review I ever got, except for redskies' Fartsmeller rendition months ago.
I disagree with you, there was an Ubermadness by Jack_McCallum that was ridiculous. Check it out: http://www.ubersite.com/m/45328 .
The posts from the IGKTW contest were also great reads.
Submitted by moneyshotforyou (user info) at 2006-08-21 21:37:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Best thing ever written