Chapter 4 - The Traitor Son
Sunday evening arrived with a suffocating silence. I had checked out of the downtown hotel and moved into the guest room of Martha’s suburban home. Richard had tried calling me seven times throughout the afternoon, his voicemails escalating from patronizing exasperation to thinly veiled threats.
'Margaret, you’ve made your point,' his third message had sneered. 'The joke is over. You made me look like an idiot in front of my team. Come home, fix dinner, and we’ll forget this ever happened. If you don't, I swear to God I’m freezing the credit cards.'
By the seventh message, his tone was venomous: 'You think you’re so clever hiding out? Let’s see how independent you are when your little craft shop gets locked up. You have until eight tomorrow morning to apologize to me.'
He still had no idea that Jason’s errant text had exposed everything.
At eight-thirty that evening, the front doorbell of Martha’s house rang with persistent, violent force. Martha grabbed a heavy brass candlestick from the mantle, but I signaled for her to stay back. I looked through the peephole. It was Jason.
I opened the heavy oak door just wide enough to stand in the threshold, keeping the security chain engaged. Jason stood on the porch, looking disheveled, smelling faintly of cheap cologne and sweat.
""Mom!"" he exhaled, trying to push his weight against the door. ""Thank God. Open up. Dad is losing his mind, and you need to come home right now.""
""I am not coming home, Jason,"" I said coldly.
He blinked, taken aback by the ice in my voice. He was used to me melting the moment he raised his voice or acted stressed. For years, I had coddled his failures, paying off his credit card debts and making excuses when he flunked out of community college.
""Mom, stop being so dramatic!"" he whined, throwing his hands in the air. ""It was just a banquet joke! Dad had a few drinks. He didn’t mean anything by it. You’re tearing the family apart over nothing!""
""Nothing?"" I stared at him, searching the contours of his face for any remnant of the sweet little boy I used to read bedtime stories to. I saw only Richard’s hollow entitlement staring back. ""You stood by a pillar with your camera, Jason. You zoomed in on my face while your father offered me to strangers for five hundred dollars. You laughed along with them.""
Jason shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting away. ""I was just recording the party, Mom! Come on, you know Dad. He likes to be the center of attention. Don't take it so personal.""
""And the text you sent me Friday night?"" I asked, dropping my voice to a razor-sharp whisper.
His face drained of all color. The smug, dismissive smirk vanished instantly, replaced by a look of sheer, panicked terror. His jaw went slack.
""You... you got that?"" he stammered, his fingers twitching toward his pocket.
""You sent it to me instead of your father,"" I said, leaning in close against the crack of the door. ""Did you really think I wouldn't see it? You and Richard planned to throw my tools into the street while I was away. You planned to steal my workshop to store whatever hot merchandise your father has been sneaking out of Harrison Manufacturing.""
""Mom, no, you don't understand!"" Jason pleaded, his voice breaking into a frantic, high-pitched whine. He grabbed the edge of the door, his eyes wide with desperation. ""That’s my business! I took out a loan, Mom! If I don't get that space, the investors are going to ruin me! Dad promised me that building! He said you were just renting it month-to-month and that you'd do whatever he told you to do!""
""Your father lied to you, Jason,"" I said without a shred of pity. ""He doesn't own that building. He never did. Martha and I own it.""
""Then let me use it!"" he shouted, dropping any pretense of remorse. ""I’m your son! You owe me! You're going to choose some rusty antique junk over your own blood?""
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""You stopped being my son the moment you saw me as merchandise,"" I told him, looking directly into his horrified eyes. ""Get off this porch, Jason. And tell your father to hire a very good lawyer. Because tomorrow morning, the show begins.""
I slammed the heavy door shut and locked the deadbolt. Through the thick wood, I could hear him kicking the bottom panel and cursing until Martha picked up the landline and loudly requested police dispatch. His tires screeched against the asphalt seconds later.
