The Eyes of September

Part Two: In Between

Esau - the bully

One week, five more disappointed conversations, and two screaming matches later, he had his sentence. It was worse than he had expected when he had left the dorm room, silent and furious. But it was lenient, considering what he had seen over the past seven days. A six month conditional release on probation and a five hundred dollar fine.

Staggering under the weight of this burden, he had emerged into the daylight to the news that his federal subsidized loans would be cut off - permanently. Another phone call and his parents informed him that they were coming down, to settle the financial business, and to see about getting him a job.

Esau prepared for the worst. All though Mirrin had, in fact, bailed him out, putting up the money without flickering her pale-blonde lashes, she had balked at arranging him a semi-permanent at Room for Me, Room for Many. I don't want to take up a bed that could be given to someone who needs it, she had told him, and when she had seen his face added, more. It wasn't that. It couldn't be.

His girlfriend was never reluctant to help. She had extended so many hands of mercy that her palms were battered with rejection. Instead of believing her he had fashioned his own excuse: that she was ashamed. If she brought him to her workplace, where she bleed out her past life to offer up sympathy for teenagers battling the same things, she would mar it. The significance of it.

He thought this, too: What part-time counselor wanted a college boyfriend that had been suspended out for drug possession and was living night-by-night until his trial?

This pushed to the forefront of his mind stronger than ever when she offered him her roommate's old spot at her apartment. Too tempting. Too close.

He needed more time to think about what he wanted - to break his statutes of faith, which had seemed more and more inconsequential lately, to become official in the eyes of the world? Better yet - why did he care what the world thought? Why did he feel as if he had something to prove? Beyond his fears, the arrest seemed to confirm that he and Mirrin would lose traction, compatibility, and that he would've passed his heart into hands that didn't intend to hold it.

Walking, en route to the Waffle House where his parents waited, he tipped his head into the foul-smelling city air and forced his thoughts to retreat. He sounded childish, insecure. And he was not. Stride purposeful, almost free, he shut off the voices that clawed into him. Caving was not an option. Questioning was not an option.

Pride accompanied him through the door. His father had picked a table in the back nearest the restrooms, and was tapping the sides of the jukebox sitting beside him in an attempt to get it to play. His mother was perched on the edge of her chair; her hands were folded and her hair was loose, cloudy grey, around her neck.

As he drew closer he saw what he had not, from the outside: her mouth was lined with strain and her cheeks were white. Her gaze, when she met his, was mirthless, red-rimmed.

"Esau." She didn't rise, merely extended her arms across the table. Her hands were cold in his.

He forced a smile. "Hey, mom. How are you?"

"What kind of question is that?" his father asked. Turning from the jukebox, he stared down at his son. Shirt a size too tight, disapproval a size too large for him to occupy well. "This kid, Bethany. You're going to be the god -" he glanced at his wife, course-corrected "- the death of me and my wallet. You know how much money you wasted? Those six weeks you're out, I have to pay for. Out of pocket. Did you know you got your aid cut off? Nice job, and because you can't shell it out -"

"John," his wife said. "We agreed, together, to help."

Fist to the table, his father groped for his coffee mug and took a ferocious sip. "On the condition that he pays me back! You think I have money spilling everywhere? I'm a mail man, Bethany, not some asshole CEO."