The Last Stand of Haviland Dinwiddie

Chapter 11

By Dabeagle

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The weekend was a mix of nerves, curiosity and growing trust. I may never be able to say if I had the right reasons for having trusted Rigby with my past to begin with. It seems stupid to say that it felt right or something like that; I'd think you'd have actual reasons, things you could almost hold in your hand. In reality I'd taken a terrible risk, or I felt like I had, as if I'd exposed something soft and easily hurt. Friday night was the recovery I desperately needed after that talk at the falls. We lay together, not talking, barely even moving. I didn't fall asleep, but I did begin to feel less out of control. Despite the drama of our talk, this was probably the best outcome.

Someone loved me.

Me.

I struggled to get my mind around it, and I don't think I quite succeeded. My mental state wasn't any better with trying to add in that Rigby was willing to...see how it played out? We weren't dating or anything, but maybe we weren't exactly single either. I guess I was in a situationship. It was complicated, but it was also kind of simple.

It was as simple as I loved him and he loved me. Whether it would develop into something more romantic was anybody's guess. Obviously there were emotions involved, maybe ones neither of us really could put definite labels on. Love covers a lot of ground. What was new was the physical side. It wasn't anything sexual; it was just comforting. It was a connection I hadn't really known I was missing. Some people are huggers, and some people avoid hugs – there is an intimacy barrier.

Intimacy. It's a strange word, because it makes me think of things like sex, but like love, it's kind of a flexible term. I'm not sure if Rigby was more concerned about me crashing out if I was left alone or himself doing that, but we spent the weekend together. We left to go to work, but other than that we were at my apartment. We cooked with my mom and did our homework. We lay together to play games on our phones or scroll through picture feeds or watch videos together.

That's really what it was: together. It was intimate because we were in the same space, but it was also intimate for the frequent, casual physical contact. It wasn't anything more than lying on each other, casual physicality and yet because it hadn't happened for me before, it felt important. I got the idea that he was getting comfortable with the idea of lying with me, of sitting with me, of getting under a blanket with me just like he might in a dating relationship.

I was fearful and jittery about some of it. I was afraid that I didn't know what I was doing and that Rigby wasn't much farther ahead of me on that. But that was balanced by much of the time being just us doing what we had done before. We were just friends who may end up with something more. It wasn't dramatic, but it felt important.

It didn't go without notice. My mom picked up on it first, giving me some curious looks. I knew I'd have to talk to her soon, but she didn't seem to be inclined to send Rigby home. Daphne made a few comments about Rigby seeming to be happy I was feeling better. I asked him what she meant, but he didn't seem to know. I wondered about that, but I didn't want to open the door to any questions I wasn't ready for.

Monday I drove Rigby home after school. He'd washed the clothes he'd been wearing at my apartment and had borrowed some of mine through the weekend; he hadn't been home since Friday morning.

“Come in with me? I just want to grab a few things, and we can leave,” he said.

I nodded and followed him into the dump that served as his home. Entering through the cracked sliding glass door, I was confronted with the potato with a head that was his mother seated at the dining room table, cigarette smoldering between her fingers and a soda can open before her.

“Oh. You still live here?” she asked, smiling as if she'd said something clever.

“I texted you I was at Harvey's,” he said, stopping at the fridge, checking inside, but then just closing the door.

“Well, it was a pretty crazy weekend,” she said, her smile looking unsettling. It wasn't mean in any way, but somehow triumphant and yet vacant, like an enormous idiot, which left me uneasy. “The cops were here. Brock got arrested. CPS showed up.”

Rigby planted his hands on the back of one of the chairs near his mother. “What was CPS here for?”

“Your little brother. They were investigating, because the cops called them after they arrested Brock.” She seemed to be enjoying the telling of gossip, even though it was about her own children.

“Ezra? Did they take him?” Rigby sounded concerned.

“Yup! Said the house isn't safe. They're sending the building department out here to review the place.” She smiled at me. “Might have to move!” She puffed her cigarette.

“Okay, but where's Ezra?” Rigby demanded.

“Foster home,” she said and slurped from her can. “They gave me a number and said we can call to make visits. They don't have to be there, they just have to approve it and know about it.” Seems like the same thing to me, I thought.

“Where's the number?”

“It's on the fridge. They wrote it on a card.”

“Didn't they offer to get you a hotel room or something?” he asked, pushing away from the chair.

She wrinkled her nose. “I don't like motels. It's gross, sleeping where other people sleep. They could leave crabs behind or something.”

The disconnect between the shithole she lived in versus a motel was kind of stunning. Well, I guess it's a case of the shithole you know versus the one you don't.

Rigby turned quickly and scanned the fridge, pulling a card from under a magnet with butt cheeks in a bikini bottom that said 'I lost my ass in Las Vegas!'. He put the card down and took his phone out, and while he was taking pictures, his mother turned her attention to me.

“Brock's in big trouble this time. That girl shouldn't have come here like that.” Despite her words she grinned that...lopsided, foolish grin that was more creepy than welcoming.

“Come here like what?” he asked, putting the card back under the magnet.

“The cops were following her!” she said gleefully. “She came running in here and started slapping Brock while the cops ran in the door after her.” She shook her head. “They tried to use the front door.”

I think she just tried to say someone else is stupid, I thought.

Rigby gave her a good stare. “Why were they chasing her?”

His mom tore her gaze and smile from me to look at Rigby. “Who?”

“One of Brock's slut...baby-mamas.” He waved a hand, probably frustrated with her.

“Oh. Brock stole some stuff from work and put it in her car for safe keeping. I guess someone told the cops.” She looked back to me and gave me that smile that probably makes small kids wet themselves. “I guess she lost her mind and drove off in the car with the cops chasing her. They got into a fight here, so the cops arrested them both.” She paused. “Ezra came running out, and the cops started looking around the house, since they were inside already. They shouldn't have been inside – I never told them they could be in here.”

Impatiently, Rigby said, “So they called CPS, and they came and took Ezra. Now they're going to come here and condemn the house, so we can't live here anymore.” He shook his head. “Why doesn't my father have Ezra?”

She brightened momentarily. “Oh! He was out of town. He comes home tomorrow, and he'll get Ezra.”

Rigby gritted his teeth. “Think you could have said that first?”

“Well, I've been thinking about where I'm gonna live!” she whined.

Rigby threw his hands in the air. “Where's your husband?”

“He went to the pub with Gordo's dad.” She pressed her lips together. “I think he's diddling his wife.”

I didn't want to try and untangle if she meant her husband was cheating, or implying that the husband was having sex with his own wife, because either sounded like possibilities from her rotten melon of a brain.

Rigby stared at her. “So wait. You guys are waiting for them to come condemn the house and throw us all to the curb, and y'all aren't even looking for a place to live? And you're worried about you? What about me?”

“Ezra can sleep on your father's couch! It's about time the man spends some time with one of his kids; why is it all on me?” She went to puff on her cigarette, but it had gone to ash. Tossing it in her soda can she looked back at Rigby. “One bedrooms are cheaper! You got a job. You want to help with rent?”

Rigby shook his head in wonder, and I just stared at her. Rigby didn't deserve this, but then neither did Ezra. It made sense Brock was screwed up – the parents were a train wreck.

“What?” she demanded. “You're eighteen!”

“I'm seventeen! Are you serious right now?”

“Well...I was close!” And then she smiled wide as if she was just so clever. “Maybe your father has two couches. I'll wait until they kick us out. It'll be easier then.”

Rigby opened his mouth but didn't speak for a moment as he shook his head. “Life is so much harder when you're stupid.” He stalked off deeper into the house, toward the bedrooms.

“You talk to your mom like that?”

I looked down at her, and she smiled wider and pulled the corner of the house dress she was wearing to expose one elongated boob.

“No, I don't talk to my mother that way. Then again, she's not an idiot.” I walked past her to follow Rigby while she started to cackle. There was something seriously wrong with her; it was like she was somehow disconnected from reality and consequences. Maybe she just didn't care where she lived as long as she had cigarettes and soda? I frowned when I didn't find Rigby in his room, and I went farther down the hall. Another door was open, and this room...wow. Rigby's room was a jumbled mess, no doubt the carpet hadn't been vacuumed – a disaster. This was the same, but in a smaller space and times ten. This was a tiny human who'd never been taught to clean up.

Rigby was pushing things aside, apparently hunting for something. “What are you doing?”

He straightened up and scanned the room. “He's got a stuffed whale. He loves it. I'm sure my loving mother didn't make sure it went with him.”

I looked around, wrinkling my nose. “It smells like a dead whale in here.”

“Probably food,” he said absently.

“How...do you live like this?”

He glanced at me and then around the room as if it were for the first time. “It's...kind of easy. Parents don't make you clean up. You're lazy, or you just grow up thinking that's okay. If you do pick up or actually clean, it's like...trying to push a mountain of shit. Your hands sink in, and if you do move any of it, whatever was on top of it falls on you. Losing battle.”

I swallowed and moved to one side, shoving things with the toe of my shoe and wondering if I did spot this whale, would it be recognizable? “What does it look like?”

“What do you mean? It's a whale.”

I shot him a look. “Like a killer whale or a moby dick whale or what?”

He glanced at me, saw my look and smiled a little. “It's one of those killer whales. Black and white.”

“Was that so hard?”

“I know where you sleep, E.” I could hear the smile in his voice as I shoved things around with my shoe. “Got it.”

I turned as he pulled a shabby stuffed animal from a strange mix of clothes, plates and – I think – a grilled cheese sandwich. “That's gross. You're not going to give it to him like that, are you?”

He picked at it a little. “Well, he likes cheese. It's like getting a toy and a snack. Yeah?”

“Rig, no,” I said firmly. “You have to wash that...thing.”

He snickered as he walked out of the room, mimicking me. “You have to wash that thing.”

I followed him back to his room, and he looked around for a moment. “Jesus. I live in the dirt.”

I wasn't sure if he was getting down on himself or just talking to hear his head rattle, but I decided to go toward being supportive. “Well, trees grow in the dirt.”

He looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow.

“Have you ever seen pictures of the giant redwoods out in California? There was one picture where people could drive their car through. Huge trees, Rig. Huge.”

He turned more toward me and tilted his head, a devilish smile curling his mouth. “Are you comparing me to a tree? I mean, I appreciate the vote of confidence, E. Really.”

I blinked a few times and then flipped him off. “You're such a dickhead.”

“Isn't that what you were just saying?” he asked and laughed as I kicked some of his dirty clothes at him. He looked around for a moment and picked up a few things and tossed them on his bed. He unearthed a bag and stuffed clothes in it. He frowned a moment and then straightened up and looked at me. “Uh. You know I just assumed I would go stay at your place. But...I guess maybe I forgot about asking your mom?”

I held my hands out to my sides. “My mom? What about me? You kick in your sleep.”

His mouth curled in amusement. “No, I don't.” He waited a beat. “I'm not asleep when I kick.”

“Well maybe you can sleep on the couch, then,” I replied, tilting my chin up in challenge.

“Bro. Wow, for the first time in our relationship I'm being kicked from the bedroom to the couch.” He laughed and continued. “First time I've been in the doghouse and not broken up with, too.”

I huffed out a breath and tried not to laugh, but it was funny. “You have another bag? Maybe a garbage bag to grab more stuff?”

“Uh, maybe.” He looked around the room, pushed a few more things around and then crossed his arms. “I think I got my good clothes, mostly. A lot of the stuff in here is used. I bought some new stuff when I started at the hardware store.”

“Did you grab all your socks and underwear?”

“Oh! Good call.” He went to the damaged dresser and jerked on the upper drawer a few times to get it open, then jammed the contents into his already strained bag. He left the room for a minute and I looked around, feeling my eyes itch at the disorganization. Even if my father hadn't turned me into a neat freak, I think there's a level of chaos where it begins to affect you mentally. It begins to feel oppressive, and the longer you live in it, the worse it feels.

Or maybe you embrace it and become a hoarder.

He came back with a reusable shopping bag. “My laptop's at your place. I just want my chargers and stuff.” He grabbed some random items and bagged them. We headed back toward the front of the house past his mother.

“Hey! Where will you be?” she demanded.

“Do you really care?” he asked as we exited through the sliding door. As we walked toward the car, I noticed a pickup truck on the edge of the road. A middle-aged man with a hardhat on and a tablet in his hand was approaching the property.

“Oh, look,” Rigby said. “I guess the time to make her leave got here faster that she expected.”

I opened the trunk, and Rigby tossed his things in the back. The man walked up the drive, coming close enough to speak to us without yelling.

“Afternoon,” he said.

Rigby closed he trunk and turned toward the man. “There's live exposed wires in at least three rooms. There's a roof leak pretty close to the breaker box. There's a crawlspace opening just behind the fridge – don't know why – and it's filled with mold.” He paused. “Oh, and I've heard claws skittering in the attic.”

He didn't seem entirely surprised to hear all of this. Instead he just tapped his screen a few times then asked him to repeat those items as he wanted to make notes.

“Oh, and the front door is nailed shut. I think that's a fire code thing, right?”

The guy raised an eyebrow. “You messing with me?”

“Not going to lie, I hope they bulldoze this place over. Just don't warn the woman inside before you do.”

We got in the car and headed back toward my apartment. Rigby was tapping his fingers on his leg and looking out his window.

“So. Big step, moving in with me.”

He glanced at me and smiled. “Don't worry. I'll figure something out.”

“Stop. Why would you say that?”

He shrugged. “Realistically? School ends for me in like six months. My birthday's in May and I'm running out of time to get my shit together. What am I going to do, E? Ask your mom to look after me? You guys have your own problems-”

“Fuck off,” I said dismissively. “You know I'll do everything I can to keep you safe.”

“What about me?” He demanded, stabbing his finger to his chest. “I'm supposed to take care of me.”

“Uh, no? Your parents are supposed to.”

“Well, look at us? One parent out of four is only good if you're talking baseball.”

I frowned. “What does baseball have to do with it?”

He rolled his hand, gesturing like I was slow. “You know, if you bat .250 you're hitting the ball one out of four times? Percentage?”

“That's not a percentage, and why the fuck would you bring baseball up?”

“I was making a point!”

I snapped my jaw shut and stared out the windshield. I know it's not what he'd meant, but my father always 'made his point', and the phrase stings like a hornet – hard and repeatedly. My anxiety and anger spun up like twin snakes, ready to wrap around my mind and...and I needed a damn breath. I needed to respond. I'm a mess, he's a mess.

“Okay. Tell me, Mr. Taking Care of Myself. Where do I fit into that?”

He sounded unsure. “What do you mean?”

I glanced at him and back to the road. “I mean, if I'm not allowed to protect you, if I'm not allowed to take care of you, if you're doing all that – where do I fit in?”

“Oh, stop! I didn't say you can't, I'm just saying I should! Don't get all butt hurt.”

I gritted my teeth. “Well, realistically, we're both seventeen. We can't get full time jobs, and we need a place to live. So if me trying to make sure you have a roof over your head is such a problem-”

“I didn't say that!”

“Then what the fuck are you saying?”

“I'm saying....I'm saying I'm pissed off, and...and my parents are shit. I want to be able to stand up and take care of myself.” He let out a sharp breath and put a hand to his forehead. “Don't you want someone to stand beside you instead of you having to carry them?”

With frustration I protested, “You do! In what fucking way don't you? You're life's a mess? Okay, mine too. But my life is so much better having you to lean on, so fucking lean on me.”

He crossed his arms. “Fine,” he muttered.

“My boyfriend's an idiot,” I said aloud and then froze. I glanced at him, and he was staring at me. I had to force myself to not drive us both into a ditch – as if I could find one. Maybe I should find one. Do they still make ditches? The silence in the car was so loud. I imagined the temperature dropping, and maybe murder hornets were buzzing around inside the air vents.

I pulled up to the side of the store, by the door going up to the apartment. I shut the car off and held onto the steering wheel for support.

“I'm sorry,” I said in a near whisper.

He was quiet for a moment. “I'm not an idiot.”

“I know.”

“I'm just...embarrassed about everything.” He undid his seat belt. The spring yanked it back, and the tab banged off the window glass. “I am leaning on you. I'm asking to live with you, but I don't like being in that position. Does that...can you understand that, E?”

I swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. I get it.”

“To show up with my stuff in bags – two bags, bruh. That's my life; it all fits into two bags. I'm showing up like that and asking your mom to let me crash, because my own family is so shady that I don't have a choice. It's humiliating E. I feel like my ego just got stomped.”

I shook my head and turned to look at him from the corner of my eye. “I'm sorry you think that. I don't see it that way.”

He shifted, bending closer to put himself fully in my field of vision. “But do you get I feel that way?”

I nodded. “I do. I know you feel that way, and I'm sorry. Really, I'd say I can't relate, but I can. I ran away from one of my parents, so I get that...hollow, helpless feeling you have.” I turned to face him, shaking my head. “But you're also wrong. Yeah, they don't treat you the way they should, but you're so good and way more than what fits into two bags. Even through all this, you have someplace to go and someone that loves you. I just...it's all I have to give you. You're upset, and I...want to help.”

“I know, E.”

I let out a breath. “Let's go up and talk to my mom.”

We climbed the stairs and took off our shoes once inside. Mom was on the couch with the laptop closed; she was sipping something from a mug.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, dragging a chair from the tiny table set to sit on.

“Hi, Mi Amor,” she said. “I see your shadow is with you.” She smiled at Rigby.

“Hey,” Rigby said with a little smile and moved toward the chair, but I blocked him and nodded for him to sit by my mom.

“Ah. So it's time,” she said, setting her mug down and turning a bit toward us as Rigby sat down beside her on the little couch.

“Time?” Rigby asked.

She nodded and gave him an indulgent smile. “It's funny, you know. The first time I saw you...you were frightening.” She pursed her lips, but was still smiling. “Yelling. Screaming. Your face was so red.”

Rigby glanced at me. “Don't say it.”

My mother placed her fingertips on his forearm to get his attention back to her, then she withdrew it. “When I first saw you, you were scary.”

Seeing Rigby's expression go from firm, from talking to me, to embarrassed and guilty was hard to watch.

My mother nodded slowly in confirmation. “So Harvey has confided in you.” Tentatively she reached out and took one of his hands between hers. She looked down at their hands as she spoke quietly. “I haven't spent very much time with you yet. I struggle with having new people near me.” She lifted her gaze to his face. “You must be very much, much more than my first impression of you.”

He opened his mouth, swallowed and tried again. “I was having a bad day.”

She nodded sympathetically. “I know bad days. So. Three days you've been here with us. Cooking, sleeping. Being something my son has never had.”

He glanced at me and then back to her. “Uh.”

I was torn. I wasn't sure where my mother was headed; was this about the looks she'd been giving me lately? Did she suspect there was something growing between Rigby and me? Or was this more about being my friend? Or a third thing, like how much he'd been there? Something else?

He straightened up, glanced at me, and then back to my mother. I wasn't ready. In my mind he was getting ready to blurt out that he loved me or that I loved him. That was already a lot between us, but I wasn't ready for everything else that came with anyone else knowing my heart belonged to him. Before he could say whatever he was going to say, I interrupted.

“He needs a place to stay.”

She looked concerned, but held onto his hand. “What's going on, Rigby?”

I was tense and anxious as he told my mother a lot more than what had just happened. He talked about neglect that had been going on for a long time. He talked about how he wanted to run away, but he stayed for his little brother. He talked about the living conditions with a clinical detachment that seemed like he was talking about someone else. He talked about the overall dysfunction of his mother and his lack of a relationship with his father.

Then he got down to the events of the weekend that we'd missed. He told her about the conversation with his mother that afternoon and how the city inspector was there. He described all the things he thought they would find wrong from bad wiring to mold to critters in the crawlspaces. While it was depressing it was also encouraging that he opened up to my mother. I don't know if it was a comfort level, detachment to protect himself, or desperation to ensure she'd say he could stay. Maybe it was a mix of all or none or more than I could think of.

“So...we put my stuff into a couple of bags. They're down in the trunk. I'm hoping I can stay here for a bit. I can talk to my father tomorrow-”

“No,” my mother said with finality. We both stared at her for a moment as she shook her head. “You stay here. If your father wants you to live with him and you want to go, then fine. But until then...this is your home. Go. Get your things. Harvey will help get your things put away. You can shower and get ready to have dinner. Go. Go, both of you.”

I stood, then leaned over to give my mom a brief hug. I patted Rigby on the back as we headed for the door and down to the car. I was a little talked out after the day we'd had, so I didn't make any comments about some of the things he'd talked about. I wasn't surprised, really, but sometimes it can get to you when you think about how long someone has been getting pushed down into the mud. Instead I wanted to think about how his life might get better now. My own life would improve, having him close to hand. I wondered if my mom, by inviting him, had started to heal a bit as well.

One day we'd have to go find someone professional to talk to. I thought right then...we were probably in some kind of shelter-in-place mode, trying to catch our breath after getting away from a predator. I think that's what they tell people to do when there's some kind of disaster; I wasn't sure how long we'd need to be in that headspace.

“Are these clothes clean? Some of them were on the floor,” I asked him.

“The ones in this one are, the others need washing.”

“Okay. Let's drop this bag here, then. Where's the whale? You're not giving it to him like that.”

“Uh, in with my dirty stuff.”

I stopped long enough to dump his stuff into the washer, then into the apartment to get the detergent while Rigby took his other bag to my room. I got his laundry started and then went back to my room, where he was picking out some clothes to wear after a shower.

“Why am I showering?” he asked.

“Probably because you need to get into the habit,” I said with a snicker. He flipped me off. He took his stuff and headed to the bathroom, and I started taking his clothes out and folding them, making space with my own. I didn't have enough clothes to fill the small dresser anyway.

“Amor.”

I turned. “Just getting organized.”

She stepped into my room and crossed her arms. “So. You found a real friend.”

I nodded, unable to keep a little smile from my face. “Yeah. He's all right. Can't say anything more, 'cause it goes right to his ego.” I mimed an expanding head with my hands.

She got a big smile, one that left me embarrassed. “This weekend...you seemed so happy. You both did. I couldn't help but notice, and it made me happy to see.” She moved over and sat on my bed. “I didn't know things were so bad for him.”

“Yeah,” I said, placing a stack of his shirts into a drawer. “He said a lot of things I didn't know about. All I really knew was what I saw when I went over.”

“It's a small space for the two of you. Should I tell him to sleep on the couch?” she asked.

“No. He's fine in here,” I replied.

She raised her chin, then stood up. She looked at me, and I almost imagined she could see into my head, that Rigby and I weren't quite just friends. Worse, I wondered if she could tell I'd accidentally called him my boyfriend earlier. Whatever we were, it wasn't that. But it also wasn't 'just friends' and it wasn't brotherly, though there were some parts that were similar. Brother's don't feel like I do for him.

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