A Stranger to Sorrow Chapter 12

[corbyinoz]

Chapter 12

The moment the engine died, Jared noticed the silence that hung heavy as broadcloth over the old Ackles place. The sky seemed close, squatting on its haunches to press down on the house in an intimacy more claustrophobic than comforting. Trees sagged alongside the balcony railings, the grey and white painted boards as crazy as old man’s teeth. Everything spoke of abandonment. The window sash, askew and hanging; leaves from a long-gone fall tossed up against the door; gaps in the wall boards, the porch, the steps. Grotesque in its blank sweetness, a doll lay almost completely entangled in bindweed.

A lone bird sounded. Dead and gone, dead and gone, dead and gone. Each phrase ended on an upward inflection, an ironic enquiry.

Jared closed the car door carefully, as if the silence was a personal one he was loathe to break. There were the remnants of a path around the side of the house, and as he craned his head he could see a yard that surely must have been a gracious space, marked as it was by long-dry fountains and overwhelmed trellises. Now it held pigweed and purslane, with clumps of Dallisgrass dotted about between pavers. He could see the beauty in the bones of the house, even as it slumped beneath the onslaughts of nature and time.

“Hello? Anyone here?”

His call sounded presumptuous in this forsaken place. He stepped carefully through the grass, onto the steps, the porch, his boots echoing on the dried old timber. The door was gone; heavy black plastic was nailed to the lintel and weighted down with rocks, blocking entry. He lifted it aside, disturbing a flurry of spiders, and stepped through.

Inside, the ruin was less picturesque. It was clear that a night at the Ackles house had become at some point an initiation rite for local teens. Bottles, broken and whole, covered the floor. Painted profanities mocked the peeling remains of delicate, Victorian style wallpaper. A fire had been lit in one corner.

“Hello?”

If Jensen Ackles was really back, there was no sign in this front hall and parlor. Jared crunched across the glass, noticing how brown the sky outside seemed through the dirt-covered windows that were still intact. The others were boarded over, making the interior light murky.

Fifteen years, Terry had said. A part of Jared marveled at the transience of it all. One and a half decades didn’t seem that long for what had clearly been a beautiful home to degenerate so drastically. He wondered what had happened first; nosy townsfolk coming to strip away the furnishing with uncaring impunity? Then the parties, the transients, windows broken and weather unleashed. One and a half decades, and though the walls seemed solid, everything else that was fine and welcoming about the house was gone.

There was a shuffling sound overhead.

Jared’s heart thumped in his throat. An animal, he thought. Raccoon. Feral cat. And for all that he’d thought he’d come here to find him, he suddenly knew he really didn’t want to see Jensen Ackles. He didn’t want to see if vicious time had done to the beautiful boy in the newspaper what it had done to the house itself.

The shuffle came again, and Jared couldn’t ignore it. He’d never been a coward. So he pulled his shoulders back and, gingerly, began to climb the stairs.

As he came to the first floor landing he noticed signs of habitation. A sleeping bag was spread out against the far wall, alongside a cheap canvas bag and hurricane lantern. A pair of jeans was tossed across the foot of the bag. A pallet of bottled water made a kind of table for the lantern. There was a strong smell of paint and kerosene.

Jared peered about nervously. Stupidly, for the first time it occurred to him that his own name was unlikely to be a welcome one. Knowing his own good intentions was not, he suddenly realized, something that could reasonably be expected to find easy expression if Ackles decided to attack him.
Through a wide arch he could see newly painted walls, a deep lilac with white trim. Wood shavings piled against a carpenter’s horse. And the end of one leg, encased in work worn boot, twitching.

“Hell - hello?” His voice cracked it, and he cleared it. “Is anyone there?”

The leg stilled. Another shuffle, then a deep voice answered.

“Who is it? What do you want?”

It sounded so scratchy and raw and buried earth deep, it seemed to Jared as if the house itself was challenging him.

“I’m Jared. I just - I’m looking for Jensen Ackles.”

The leg pulled back, out of sight.

“What do you want?”

“Just to talk. I heard you were back. It is you, isn’t it?” As he spoke he came slowly forward, moving around the doorjamb to see further into the room. Two more steps and he was in.

The man before him was lying against the wall as if he’d been dropped there against his will. The first thing Jared noticed was the arm held across his stomach. It was swollen, mottled red, and looked so painful he grimaced in automatic sympathy.

Then he followed the arm up to the broad shoulders, bare in the sickening heat, to find the face, where he was met with an expression of flat defiance. It was with a distinct sense of relief that Jared recognized two things; he’d found Jensen Ackles, and the man who was gazing up at him, so awkwardly jammed into the wall, clearly still held the features of the boy he’d once been. The angles were sharper, the jaw line and cheekbones broader, but for all the dirt and sweat, for all the miles and years travelled, he was not a ruin.

At least, that was Jared’s first impression. It was a quick and specious comfort. Because the moment he locked eyes with Jensen, he saw the innocent pain of the teen had been tempered into something dark and deadly, something that promised a visitation of wrath should he linger too long or too close.

“Are you okay?”

Jensen Ackles stared at him. Jared gestured to his arm.

“This?” Jensen didn’t bother to look down at it. “Rattler. ‘Bout three days ago.”

“A rattlesnake? God, are you alright?” It ranked as one of his more vacuous questions.

Jensen gave a noise that might have once been a chuckle. It sounded like a house shifting on its foundations.

“Didn’t kill me. Figure I’ll do.” He squinted at Jared. “What do you want?”

“Yeah, right. Right. Um - do you want - I could take you into town, get that looked at?"

“Town? You’re a comedian.”

Jared’s face twisted in concern.

“You should get the doc to look at that. Might be infected.”

An eyebrow quirked at him. It seemed to take effort.

“You from around here? Know the doc’s name, Jason?” At Jared’s head shake, he answered, “Nuentes. Look it up. Then maybe you’ll know why the good doctor wouldn’t look at this arm if I paid him with all the money I got.” He shifted a little, clearly in pain. “Looks worse than it is. Be okay. Just - just hurts some.”

“I bet.” Jared swung his backpack off his shoulder - carefully, as if engaging with a wild creature.
“I bought some beers, if you’re interested.”

Jensen frowned again, watching as Jared pulled two cold beers from the insulated bag.

“You came planning on a visit, huh.”

“I thought, if I could catch up with you…”

“You’d what? Hey, no offence, dude, but I don’t know you and you still haven’t explained any why you’re here. So - what? You’re the distraction while your pals get around back, burn me out? That it?”

“What? No!” Jared was scandalized enough to raise his voice. Jensen watched him closely. “No, I really, really just wanted to find you, talk to you.”

For another long moment, Jensen scrutinized him. Then at last he let his head fall back, eyes half-closed.

“Fuck off.”

“Jensen -“

“I’m not a fucking freak show, okay? Go get your rocks off someplace else.”

“I know you’re not a freak. God.” Jared ran a hand through his hair, lank with the humidity. “I just want to get your side.”

“My ‘side’? Yeah, okay. So you’re either a lawyer or a journalist. Which is it?”

He took the top off one beer and held it out. “I wanted to write about the town. Tell the story of how it has gone downhill so badly. I used to come here, when I was a kid, holidays, you know? And now I’m back, visiting family, and it seems so sad that the place is looking so poorly. I thought, maybe a story like that would get some action. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought the whole downward spiral started with - with that summer, with you and what happened.”

“Well.” Jensen eyed him with dislike. “Ain’t you the circumspect little sweetheart. ‘What happened’? Why don’t you say what you mean, Jason?”

“It’s Jared, actually. Here. Take it, please.” He waved the beer at Jensen, who, after another hesitation, reluctantly reached out for it with his good hand. But it shook so badly that Jared found himself taking it, to steer the beer into Jensen’s grasp. The hand was clammy and calloused, but he could sense the strength in it, the leashed power.

A nod of acknowledgement, and Jensen pulled back, shifting himself to sit a little more upright. His face was flushed, but whether that was with fever or heat, Jared couldn’t tell.

There were three empty water bottles bedside him, but Jensen’s position looked so uncomfortable that Jared couldn’t think he’d stayed there deliberately. It suddenly occurred to Jared that Jensen had collapsed there, and he wondered how long, exactly, it had been since the man had had anything to eat or drink.

“Can I get you some water?”

Jensen simply stared at him. Without waiting for an answer, Jared turned back to the landing and grabbed several water bottles from the pallet. By the time he returned, Jensen had pulled himself completely upright, propped against the wall, and Jared could see the way the sweat ran in rivulets down his neck and chest, cutting through wood dust.

“Here.” Jared unscrewed the cap from the bottle. “Better have this before the beer.”

He could tell Jensen was trying to keep himself back; but as he passed the water over to him, Jensen grabbed it and swallowed it so fast he choked, and had to pause before trying again.

“Jesus. You’ve been like this three days?”

“Nope.” Jensen finished the bottle and leaned back with a sigh. “Been a lot worse.”

“Why are you in here?” The tilt of the head again, and Jared waved towards the landing. “I mean, why didn’t you go onto your bed? With the water, and the lamp?”

Jensen blinked heavily several times, as if each blink dragged memory and thought from a deep well.

“Figured I’d die in the one room I finished.” His eyes, bright green against the grayness of his face, travelled around the walls and ceiling. “This is Lotte’s room. She always liked purple. Gotta get the girls’ rooms right before - before they’ll come back.”

“Your sisters, right? I remember them. I remember Lotte. I met her one summer.”

“You did?” Jensen struggled to lean forward. “Have you - do you know where she is? Have you talked to her?”

It was painful, the feverish desire in that question.

“No, man, I haven’t seen her since the last summer we had here.” Jared hated to see the way Jensen’s face, so briefly illuminated, dulled again. “I guess I was about ten? But you haven’t seen her since you - um, got back?”

Eyes closed, Jensen shook his head.

“Haven’t seen or heard from her since I was sixteen. Seventeen,” he corrected himself. “Fifteen years.” He opened his eyes again and looked at Jared, hopelessly. “I tried to get the agency to tell me, and I tracked down the foster family, first thing I did when I got out, but they wouldn’t…” He trailed off, and Jared realized there were tears forming in Jensen’s eyes, a silent testament to how consuming the despair of that search had been, and how exhausted in body and mind the man before him was.

“Maybe I could help?”

Jensen blinked again, and one forearm came up to roughly wipe away the moisture on his face.

“You? Why would you?”

“I’m a journalist. I have contacts. I could do it for you.”

The skepticism was clear on Jensen’s face, and Jared was reminded again of that innocent boy in the photo, the one utterly lost to the vagaries of fortune.

“And what would I have to do in return?”

“Talk to me? Tell me your story.”

Jensen gestured with tired disgust.

“I got no story, man. I’m an ex-con, living in the shell of my old family home. I got no-one and nothing. What would I have to say?”

Jared shrugged. “I don’t know. You haven’t told me yet.”

They looked at each other for almost a minute, silent, struggling with mutual incomprehension. At last, Jensen rolled his eyes.

“If that’s what butters your muffin, sure. Shoot, I’ll tell you my story. If you find me my sisters, I’ll tell you their story too.”

“Cool.” Jared saw Jensen mouth ‘cool’, with a sneer, but he was too delighted with his progress to care. “But first, I’mma going out to the car and getting my first aid kit. I got antiseptic wipes and anti-inflammatories. And Tylenol for that pain that’s got you lying here all helpless.”

“The hell I’m helpless!”

But Jared left him, hurrying down the stairs before Jensen had a chance to say more. At the car again he opened the trunk and pulled out the first aid kit he took with him everywhere (bought in the first flush of excitement about being a paid journalist, destined to be right there at the hot spots of his nation’s travails - somewhat ignored when the San Augustin livestock report turned out to be his twice weekly beat). As he closed the trunk, he found himself looking north, towards the low hills that eased up from the plain less than a mile away. In the bright light he could even see the shapes of the Parcae College buildings, with the tower spire cutting into the air above the pines, and it occurred to him that every subsequent generation of Ackles after Artemus was always living and dying within eyesight of that man’s legacy.

On his return he saw that Jensen had pulled his legs up so that he was sitting free of the wall. He knew at once that Jensen’s effort was in response to that last comment. It wasn’t smart policy to look weak in jail. No doubt it was a lesson quickly learned and deeply ingrained, and Jared felt a flush of shame that his careless words had made an injured man feel the need to find a defensive posture.

“Hey. Here’s the Tylenol. Take some.”

Jensen reached up, scowling, to accept the pills.

“Bossy piece, aren’t you?”

“Not usually.” Jared sat down cross-legged in front of him, aiming for a reduction of height and possible threat, then reached for Jensen’s arm, antiseptic swab in his hand. It was given to him with reluctance. “So - you’re doing up the whole place, huh? Gonna sell it?”

Jensen swallowed the pills, his eyes never leaving Jared. When he wiped his mouth, he set the bottle close beside him, a man attuned to casual thievery.

“I don’t know. The girls have to have their say. It’s one third theirs too, you know. I mean, each.”

“Yeah. It’s hard, the whole dividing up things, with family. I mean, after someone dies.”

Jensen looked at him, an invitation, and Jared took a small breath. He’d made a decision as he climbed the stairs. He finished wiping down Jensen’s arm and gently replaced it across his stomach.

“My uncle just died. ‘Reason I came back. Jurek Padalecki.”

For a moment, Jared didn’t think Jensen had heard. Then a low sound escaped Jensen, like a breath dying on release.

“You’re a Padalecki.”

“Yeah. Jared Padalecki. I’m staying with my cousin Terry.”

Jensen stared at him. Jared waited for the reaction - rage, or even violence, perhaps - but there was nothing for a long minute. Then Jensen’s mouth tightened, rueful and weary.

“And I’m supposed to believe you’re not looking to sandbag me?” At Jared’s frown, he added, “Get some more payback? For Troy?”

“God, what is it with you people? First Terry - no. Jensen, you went to jail for fifteen years. I don’t even know why you hit him, but I read the transcript, few years ago. You wanted to hurt him, I get that. Hell, times were I wanted to hurt him. But I don’t for a second believe you wanted to kill him.”

A fly buzzed lazily through the air between them, fat and slow in the heat. Jensen brushed at it, his eyes never leaving Jared’s.

“Maybe I did. I hated Troy fucking Padalecki. Glad he’s dead. So what are you gonna write now, Jimmy Olsen? ‘Unrepentant Asshole Curses Town’?”

“You think there’s a curse, too?’

Letting his shoulders slump back towards the wall, Jensen sighed.

“There’s a curse. On me, anyway. Can’t say about the town, but yeah.”

Jared shook his head slightly.

“I get that there was some bad luck happened -“

“No. No, I mean it. Now, I’m not saying I’m in my right mind just now, ‘cos of the heat and all, but I mean it. Took me a long time to remember it, because so much happened straight after, but in jail you got nothing but time. At Arlington, on the mound, and Matt Day asked me, said did I want good luck now or when I was old, and I said - “ Jensen shuddered in a breath, stopping the rush of words. He narrowed his eyes at Jared.

“What’m I telling you this for?”

Jared shrugged, carefully. “S’good to talk sometimes. Helps, you know.”

“Yeah?” Jensen said, shifting his shoulders, fretfully. Everything about him - the way his body had so quickly eased back into the wall, the way his words had begun to slow, almost slurring - spoke of his exhaustion. “Helps who?”

“I don’t know. You, maybe? You never said a word at your trial. I can’t believe you don’t have a story to tell. Everyone deserves the right to be heard.”

Thick and slow, Jensen’s voice crawled from him.

“Let ‘em down. That’s all. They deserved better. Shoulda been better.”

He’d had enough talk, Jared could see that. Awkwardly he rose to his feet, and the movement startled Jensen aware again, alert to height and closeness.

“I’ll go now. Do you need anything from town?” Jensen’s head lolled sideways, and Jared left him to go to the landing and return with the sleeping bag.

“Here.” His voice was gentle. He rolled the bag up and, without asking permission, wedged it beside Jensen’s body. “Lie on that. You’ll rest more easy than on the floor.”

The fight to stay awake was quickly beyond Jensen. He slid down and rested his head against the sleeping bag. Jared pulled his legs straight and positioned them more comfortably, careful to keep the swollen arm from being jostled through it all.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, and it was a promise.