#moas

July, 1984 // Tinsley

The sun hung in its afternoon descent. The woods hummed with heat. A female sooty grouse pecked in the undergrowth with a half-dozen chicks. They scattered whenever the dogs passed by.

It was almost too hot to be having sex, but inside, in Ricky’s room, with the door open to the hall and the windows open to the world outside, they were managing it. It wasn’t an adventurous affair; plain and solid missionary, his hands braced either side of Ricky’s head, their breaths panting and their stomachs brushing and the bed creaking.

Ricky was a strange lay. He rarely moaned and groaned and grunted like Tinsley did—his pleasure was evident only in his breaths, when they stopped and started and stuttered, a sharp gasp, a sigh. He pulled Tinsley’s head in against his chest, another way he showed his pleasure, gripping and grabbing, unable to let go when he was in the throes of it. He was strongly built, dense and lean; Tinsley watched how the sweat shone along the dips of his body, how the dark hair that continued to his crotch was slicked down with exertion.

Over the years, while others had come and gone, Ricky remained consistent, and he remained reliable. But today, he was distracted. He stared at the wall, head turned aside, his grip on Tinsley’s hair one of habit rather than passion.

Tinsley stopped thrusting. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and his upper lip. “Jesus. It’s fucking roasting. Are you gonna cum soon?”

Ricky shook his head. “No.”

“Right. Well, don’t mind if I do.”

He finished in the next few thrusts, nothing to write home about, but better than nothing. He peeled the length of himself off Ricky, pulling on his shorts and going into the kitchen to stick his head into the fridge for a few minutes. Ricky came in and ran his head under the tap, squeezing the cool water from his hair. Birdsong filtered in through the open windows.

“You got anything to drink in here?” asked Tinsley from the fridge.

“I dunno. Beer.”

“That’ll do.”

He cracked open two bottles, using the side of the kitchen counter to pry the lids off, even though Ricky hated when he did this because it took little chips out of the wood. On the kitchen table sat a broken fan, with some screws and a little screwdriver, the heatwave having brought around a new wave of desperation for Ricky to fix it. When Tinsley suggested he just get a new one, Ricky refused. He said he didn’t like to rely on having to buy things. Tinsley said he needed to give up this idea of being totally self-dependent, because the last he checked the cabin was connected to the same electricity grid and water system as the rest of Maysea. This didn’t go down so well. But so what? The guy lived in almost total denial about himself. Maybe it was time to wake up.

“So,” said Tinsley, “what’s going on with you then?”

Ricky blinked. “What?”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re fibbing. Tell me.”

Ricky didn’t smile—though even when he did smile his eyes would remain dark and serious, and Tinsley often thought that Ricky only mimicked the expressions of the faces around him, and was always assessing himself in return, and if he just left himself alone he would have that soft sombre stare on his face almost always.

“Sit,” said Tinsley. “Have a drink.”

“I don’t want a beer.”

“Well, you could’ve told me that before I opened one for you.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to open one for me.”

Tinsley sat back in his seat; the wood stuck and pulled at his thighs. “You’re annoyed at me for something. So tell me what it is.”

“I’m trying to decide if it’d be a waste of breath.” Ricky rubbed at a chip in the countertop with his thumb and gruffly cleared his throat. “It’s about Maisie.”

“Of course it is. What about her.”

Ricky continued rubbing at the chip in the countertop, his head ducked to watch. “Darragh is having a birthday party and Maisie is the only kid in their class not invited. That’s…”

Tinsley rested a hand over his eyes, massaging at his temples. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not joking. It’s really hurt her feelings. She was here last night for a movie and she cried about it. It was horrible.”

“The kids aren’t friends. It’s as simple as that.”

Ricky whispered, almost to himself, “He’s bullying her.”

“Oh enough with that shite. He’s not bullying her.”

“The entire class is invited apart from her! That’s excluding her. On purpose.”

“They’re not friends, Ricky. Stop being so fucking ridiculous.”

“I bet Beverly was delighted. It was probably her idea. We all know she has great ideas when it comes to being a bitch.”

Tinsley poked his tongue into his cheek. He couldn’t exactly correct him on that. Then, “We said we wouldn’t bring any of this family crap into what we have going here.”

“Whatever we have going here,” repeated Ricky, before scoffing and repeating again, “Whatever the hell we have going here… Think about it, Tinsley. This will be most of it.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“This will be most of it,” repeated Ricky, gesturing sharply between them. “It’ll be Magpie, and it’ll be your kids, and it’ll be Beverly and Tippi, for as long as we all live here, this is what it’ll be. I mean, come on. What me and you are doing right now… It’s not going to last forever. You know that, right?”

“I know that,” said Tinsley, though he was a little insulted that it was Ricky who pointed it out, and not him.

"So we can't just push it all aside like it'll just go away. Maisie was upset last night. Really, really upset. I can't just pretend it didn't happen."

"Life's a bitch. The kid will have to learn that someday. How about when her birthday comes around she invites everyone apart from Darragh? Who cares."

Ricky wasn’t content with this. He sat down at the table and picked up the screwdriver, pulling the fan towards himself, giving his hands something to do, the way he always had to if he wanted to think straight.

Tinsley watched him, growing increasingly agitated with the little click-click-clickings of the screwdriver. "So what the hell do you want here, Ricky. You want her to be invited to Darragh's fecking birthday party, is that it? You're unreal."

"Of course I want her to be invited," he replied quietly. "Last night, the way she was crying… I never saw her cry like that before. She said everyone thinks she's a weirdo in school already and this will just make it worse." He was poking at the fan, but he was slow and unfocused. Eventually he rested both hands back on the table and said, quietly, "I'm scared she doesn't have any friends."

Oh Jesus. They were really getting into it now. "You don't know that. She's a sweet kid. She probably has friends."

"She's not sweet. She's like me. She's strange. I've made her strange." He stood up again, and this time he took his beer with him. A few hard slugs seemed to settle him a bit; he leaned against the fridge, the back of his wrist pressed to his mouth for a minute. "I don't want her to be like me. I want her to be different. It's too late for me but she can still get better."

“You’re being dramatic,” said Tinsley. “You’re just feeling sensitive, honey. Maybe it’s your time of the month.”

This, again, failed to bring any lightness to the conversation. Instead, Ricky focused on him with a sudden jarring intensity. "God, I told myself not to bring it up with you. I told myself not to waste my fucking breath. I'm such a stupid, stupid fucking idiot." He paced in a circle on the kitchen floor. Then he flung his beer into the sink, bottle and all. He gripped the side of the counter. His shoulder blades flexed beneath his skin. "Fuck. I hate thinking you were right about everything. I hate it." His grip tightened on the counter. He continued staring into the sink. “I didn’t have friends when I was a kid. Everyone else made friends so easily but I found it so hard. I thought it was the hardest thing in the world.” He continued, "You're so good at saying what everyone wants to hear. And even though I have more sincerity in my little finger than you do in your entire body, I’m still out here alone, while you're over there with everyone else." He angled his head towards Tinsley, but still he didn't look at him, instead fixating on the floor between them. The words grated between his teeth. "I want her to be more like you."

Tinsley laughed, first in shock, then in disbelief. "No you don't."

"I do. I do, because it'll be better for her. What the hell do I know about the real world? I don't know anything. She needs to get out there and meet people and make friends.” His voice had grown thick. He pressed the heel of his hand into his eyes one at a time. “She's a bright kid and I'm just holding her back."

Tinsley stared at him for some time after this. Ricky had never spoken so openly and emotionally about anything, not once in the entire time Tinsley had known him. It was unnerving. He wondered whether or not he liked it.

"I want you to be in her life,” whispered Ricky.

Tinsley closed his eyes, raising a hand. "Ricky. Jesus. Hold your horses."

“You have to be.”

“You don’t get to make this decision. It’s not all up to you. I get a say too. And my say is I don’t want to be in her life. I hardly know the kid. I have three of my own and they keep me plenty busy as it is. Beverly would leave me. She’d pack up and take my kids to California in a heartbeat. She’s never liked it this far north anyway. She’s raring for an excuse.”

Ricky was staring at him. “You can’t say no.”

“Yes I fucking can.”

“You’re her father. You used to want to be in her life. What changed? You’re just trying to upset me.”

“You know, you spend so much time out here alone it’s made you think you’re the only fucking guy in the world.” Tinsley gestured towards the town, so many miles east. “I have Fionn and Darragh and Asher to think of. I have my kids, who I love, by the way, and if they got taken away—”

Ricky interrupted, “Oh please. You don't love them. You don't love anything. Apart from your mangy stupid dogs. What happened to wanting a daughter?”

“I let go of that. I had to let go of it. Because it was driving me crazy, having you dangle her in and out of my life. And don't give me that look. You know full well that it's true, you wee sadist.”

Ricky was reddening a little, but it was hard to tell if it was due to the heat or the accusations. “So you feel nothing about her now. Nothing at all.”

Tinsley took a swig of beer, letting it bubble on his tongue, swirling it around his teeth before swallowing. “Say you made a mistake.” He waited. “Go on. Say you were wrong and I was right. Say I would’ve done a better job than you at raising the girl. Say it.” He waited some more. “You won’t say it. You couldn’t possibly admit it was all your fault. Even though you’re admitting it in almost every other way. You just can’t say it out loud.”

Ricky was breathing so heavily Tinsley could hear it from where he stood. “Is that what you want?”

“Does it matter? You’d never say it.”

“Because it’s not fucking true.”

Tinsley finished his beer and set it aside. He stood up and went into the bedroom to fetch his clothes. At the door, before letting himself out, he turned to where Ricky stood half-naked in the doorway, his hair frizzy and dripping. It reminded him, suddenly, of when he had first planted a kiss on Ricky's mouth, that day by the lake, and the story his grandmother used to tell him of the creature that crawls from the water in the form of a beautiful young man, who would take you away and eat you raw...

Tinsley opened the front door, pausing just to say, “Your niece is going to grow up to be exactly like you. And it’ll be all your fault.”

--

May, 1981 / Ricky

That morning had started off with laughter. It was warm and the sunlight filtered through the leaves. Ricky had been brushing the horse, and Magpie had tottered out of the forest—perhaps nine or ten years of age—carrying a large and confused bird in her arms. It was almost too big for her to hold, legs sticking out and wings squashed in. She had believed it was a chicken, injured and lost. It looked at Ricky with its big inquisitive eyes, as though awaiting an explanation for this unceremonious treatment. It was not a chicken. It was a barred owl.

"How did you get that?" asked Ricky, crouching down in front of her. He reached out to the owl's face, holding his finger near its beak to offer a curious nibble. The beak remained closed.

"I dunno. It was just there."

"Bring it back where you found it." His voice petered away, his gaze shifting over her head. A truck engine rumbled. "Go now. Hurry up. And don't come back until I call you."

Magpie instantly obeyed. At home and in school she was disobedient and defiant, but in the woods she knew to do what Ricky said, when he said it.

It was Tinsley's truck that pulled up beside his house, but it wasn't Tinsley driving it. Beverly Miller climbed out. She wore some hiking trousers and a sleeveless top, and her blonde hair was thrown up in an untidy ponytail that left strands sticking to her damp neck. Her arms were all bone and muscle, her shoulders square. She didn't look like a mother. Ricky often got the feeling she would've given an arm and a leg to have his life.

"Where's the girl gone," she said, her tone steely. Her father had been a litigator. In moments like these, Ricky believed she would’ve made a fine one too. "I saw her."

Ricky said nothing.

"Tell her to come back," said Beverly, approaching. “Tell her to come back here this instant.”

Ricky plucked Sisi's hair from the brush in tufts. "Why."

"I want to see her."

"Why."

"Don't act stupid with me. I want to see her face.” A slow breath. “Tell her to come back."

"No."

Beverly's eyes narrowed. Blue eyes, like chips of ice. She raised her voice, cupping her mouth to the forest. "Maisie!"

Ricky tossed the brush aside. "She won't come back unless I say so."

She closed the space between them. She had freckles across her chest and a mole at the corner of her left eye. She was beautiful in the way a man could be beautiful, all sharp edges and stone. Ricky swallowed hard.

She spoke with restraint. “He might think I couldn't possibly ever know unless he tells me, but I know who she is. I saw her in the school yearbook. Her nose." She took another slow breath. "I just want to see her in person. I just want to be sure."

Ricky continued staring at her. So she'd finally figured it out. Or she was on the way to figuring it out. And she was so very close. This, really, could be the last step. Did Tinsley know she was out here? Did he know it could all be about to unravel? All Ricky had to do was hand the thread over, and all Beverly had to do was pull it…

Ricky turned his head, raising his voice. "Maisie, come here a moment."

She came out from behind the cabin. One cotton sock was halfway up her calf, the other down around her ankle. Ridiculous white socks with frills. Totally unsuited to the woods. Tippi had been pushing for the lovely little girl, trying to convince Magpie into ballet classes.

Ricky nodded. "Over here. It's okay."

Beverly tucked her hair behind her ears; her hands were visibly trembling, her breaths shallow, as she watched Magpie totter over. She crouched down. There was sweat staining the back of her t-shirt.

"Can I see you?" she asked.

Magpie eyed her sidelong before looking at Ricky for reassurance. He nodded again. She went over to Beverly.

A few minutes passed. Beverly took in every aspect of Magpie's face. She traced a finger down the length of her nose, giving her a little tap at the end. "You're a little cutie." She straightened up then, looking directly at Ricky. "She looks like you," she said. "Mostly."

"Yeah?" he asked. He waited. "Who else does she look like."

"You know who else she looks like." She dragged her hands over her face in a terribly weary gesture. "God. Your family ruin everything they touch. Why couldn't you have just stayed in fucking Mexico."

He started. "Fuck you. Why couldn't your slut husband stay in Ireland."

She raised her hand as though to slap him, but he tilted his head with warning, and she decided against it. Magpie hugged Ricky's leg and he rested a hand on her head.

“Do you have beer?” asked Beverly.

--

Inside, Ricky opened her a beer. He opened one for himself as well. As usual, Magpie begged and pleaded for her own bottle, even though he had let her taste it once and she spat it out and pulled a face. He began peeling an apple for her instead and she sat on the couch in the living room and swung her legs while she waited.

“She’s sweet,” said Beverly, almost too quietly to be heard. She was sitting at the kitchen table in something adjacent to shock.

Ricky looked at her. Then he looked at Magpie before focusing on the apple again. “She’s not always sweet.”

“She’s sometimes sweet. Her father’s daughter.”

“Not really. Not in any way that matters.”

“He’s not in her life at all?”

“No. He wanted to be.”

“So she has no dad.”

“She has me.”

There was a pause at his tone. He ducked his head and continued peeling the apple with double-speed before realising he had nicked his thumb and blood was sinking into the pale flesh of the fruit. He braced his hands on the counter and took a breather. He twisted his shoulders one way and then the other.

“He hasn’t made it easy for you,” ventured Beverly. “He doesn’t handle it well, when you won’t give him what he wants. He always wanted a daughter. We almost had one.”

“I know. He told me.”

“He told you?” She turned her head aside and released a long, exasperated breath through her mouth. “He told you. Great. He probably told half the town whenever he had a few pints on him.”

“He came out here and told me about it and then he said he wanted to see Maisie. And I said over my dead body.”

“Ha. You were right to say no. He wouldn’t have done her any good. He doesn’t do anyone any good.” A hard slug of beer. She wiped her mouth with her wrist. “You know, I know he cheats on me. I’m not an idiot. But you know what? I always knew he would. He always had a wandering eye. We could be sitting down to dinner in a lovely restaurant and he’d be eyeballing some girl across the way. I just thought he’d stop. I thought I could make him stop by being better. Which is stupid of me, right? I never thought I was stupid. But I guess I am.”

“You’re not stupid,” mumbled Ricky. He had rinsed the apple and was slicing it into sticks. He wanted more than anything to tell her that he understood. He understood the magnetism of her husband, the way he could be the biggest bastard this side of the Pacific and still have you wrapped around his little finger, the way all these foolish women could fawn after him and you would tell yourself not me, I’m not like them, but you were, you were. The indignity of it. “You’re not stupid. He’s stupid.”

“You’re not stupid either,” she said. “Neither of us are stupid. But what can we do about it? We’re just two jilted lovers, after all.”

Ricky slowed in his slicing. It was then he realised that the beer she had in front of her was not her first beer of the day. How else could she have worked up the reckless courage to drive out here and confront him about these things? He gathered the apple onto a plate, delivered it into Maisie, and returned to the kitchen. He closed the door behind him. Beverly was watching him with snide amusement.

“You thought I didn’t know,” she continued, “but I always had my suspicions about Casey, with the whole gay thing. We went through this phase a few years ago of watching those karate movies, with those muscly actors who run around shirtless and oily, Bruce Lee and shit, and it was like damn clockwork—five minutes later and Casey would be pausing the movie to fuck. But it was easy to ignore, really, because at least it was still women he wanted to fuck. And then you came along.” She observed him for a moment. “You’re a good-looking guy. You know that much, don’t you, Ricky?”

He swallowed. He was entirely on the back-foot and it was making him sick. “Am I supposed to say yes or no.”

“Let me guess. He drives out here whenever he wants to get laid and then he leaves.”

“Well I’m not gonna go to his house, am I.”

This made her sit back; a flash of anger, but she maintained her cool. “You’re funny, too. He likes that. You’re funny, and you’re good-looking, but you're still a freak. There's lots of freaks in the world, aren’t there, Ricky? Amazing freaks. Real weirdos that go on to do amazing things. Not you, though. But others." She watched him. “What are you thinking right now? Casey always says you’re difficult to read. The entire sheriff’s department says so. But I don’t think you’re so hard to read. You’re just quiet. Self-absorbed. Do you think you might have autism? It’s a mental thing. I’ve been trying to read up on it about Asher because he acts… differently sometimes. Different to other kids. Were you different to other kids?”

Ricky hesitated. Of course he had been different to the other kids. He had spent most of his life tossing and turning over how he couldn’t name a single friend, a single real friend, all his time in the school yard spent fighting bullies or digging up worms to watch them wriggle. And when he grew up, he was different to the other teenagers, they would all go to movies and kiss each other in the dark while he would get drunk and high by himself in the woods. And as an adult, the differences became only more stark, the rest of them getting married and settling down and he in his cabin. He thought the loneliness would get easier but it only became more difficult, until he eventually numbed himself to it, an animal crawling off to die.

“What was your mother like?” persisted Beverly. “Were you close? Was she nice to you? I don’t get that impression. There’s a term I came across, Refrigerator Mother. It’s an unemotional mother and they said mothers like that cause kids to have this— this detachment from reality. These weird reactions to life. I just sometimes wonder if I… But that doesn’t matter, really, because they say it’s inherently biological now. It exists in the baby’s brain before the baby even comes out of the womb. And the DSM says there’s three essential criteria for diagnosis,” she continued, counting off on her fingers, “a disinterest in other people, an inability to communicate clearly, and weird reactions to the world around you. And that made me think of you. So I thought I’d ask.”

“Is it a disease?” he asked, and there was a brief spark of hope that if it was a disease, there could be a cure. And it wouldn’t be the cure his mother used to peddle, about sending him to a hospital and having an ice pick driven into his eye to make his brain die. It could be a simple injection, or even a pill.

“It’s not a disease. It’s a disorder. It can have different intensities. It’s hard to tell with Asher so far but he just doesn’t have so many friends. And then I thought about the fact you don’t—”

“Shut up!”

Beverly blinked, but other than that she didn’t react. Perhaps she was used to it with three sons.

“Shut up,” repeated Ricky, breathless. “I don’t have a disorder. Shut up. You don’t even know me.” God, he sounded like a stroppy teenager. He smoothed his hair back from his face. “I’m out here alone on purpose. I chose it. Some people choose to live alone.”

“Do you really think that? Because I think it was chosen for you. By everyone else.”

His face was hot and stinging, as if she had slapped him across the face both ways. “...I think you should leave.”

She finished her beer in a few hard swallows before wiping her mouth and standing up. But she didn’t leave the kitchen. She approached him with the same warm threatening air of her husband.

“We could get our revenge,” she said. “You could take me into your room now and put a baby in me. Imagine that. Imagine Casey’s face if I popped out a little brown baby in nine months. He’d blow a fuse.”

Ricky backed into the fridge. The contents rattled. Beverly pressed her shoulder into his chest, gripping his crotch firmly through his trousers—he turned his head aside, gripping the edges of the fridge behind him, entirely frozen. His neck was bared and she was breathing against it as if she was going to sink her fangs in at any second. One dog submitting to another.

She stared hard at his closed eyes. “Is that a no?”

He confirmed with a small shake of his head. With a fed-up sigh, she released him and stepped back. “Fine. You’re lucky I’m not Casey.”

--

Ricky sat on his couch for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. He hugged his knees to his chest and stared at the floor while the sun slowly set outside. The room dimmed, the woods became dark and alive. He rose only to use the bathroom or to eat a piece of fruit, even though he was hungry for more. Being on the edge of hunger kept his mind clear.

Tinsley must have been on a late shift, because he arrived after midnight. His truck rumbled to a halt outside. A door slammed, the sound of footsteps halfway to a run. He tried the front door immediately, the slam of hinges, but while Ricky typically left the door unlocked he had thought better of it tonight.

“Ricky!” Tinsley hammered on the door, followed by more rattling hinges as he drove his shoulder into it. “Ricky open this fucking door! I know you’re in there!”

Ricky unfurled himself from the couch and got to his feet. He was stiff, so he stretched a little. Then he picked up his rifle and went into the hall.

“Ricky open the fucking door!” More loud hammering. “You son of a bitch. Are you trying to ruin my life? Open it!”

Quietly, Ricky approached the door. He turned the key and had retreated to the far end of the hall before Tinsley had stormed inside. Tinsley stopped at the sight of the gun, but he only glanced at it before his attention returned to Ricky’s face with full fury.

“Well you obviously know why I came out here.” He waited, fists clenched. “Put that thing down before I break it over your fucking head.”

Ricky didn’t blink. “Go into the living room and sit on the couch.”

Tinsley breathed through gritted teeth. He wanted to reply, to say that Ricky wouldn’t have the guts to pull the trigger, but he wasn’t entirely sure, so he did as ordered. Into the living room that smelled of wood and paper. Before he sat down, Ricky stopped him.

“Take off your jacket.”

Tinsley took off his sheriff’s jacket and tossed it aside.

“Untuck your shirt. Lift it up.”

This got a scoff, but Tinsley did it, adding a turnaround as well. “Happy?”

“Sit.”

“What’s next? Give the paw?” But he sat down, still eyeing the rifle. “I can’t believe you told her. I really can’t. Even though you’re a troublesome little shit I didn’t think you’d do it.”

“I didn’t tell her anything. She knew before she got here. Said she noticed in the school yearbook. So don’t come blaming me.”

“You let her see the girl. Up close and personal. You knew what you were doing. You tried it years ago, introducing them. You never introduced the girl to anyone else. You can hardly even introduce yourself most of the time. So don’t act the fucking innocent with me now.” He was sitting, but he was primed to attack, his legs tense. “God I should beat your fucking ass. You can’t just go about your revenge like a regular man, can you? Can’t just fuck my wife or something? No, you have to be a weird little hermit queer who plays the long game.”

“I’m not playing a game. You just think everyone is as manipulative as you.”

“Oh I’m not manipulative. I might do whatever I want, but I’m not manipulative. You, on the other hand, are a Machiavellian little shit.”

"You had Maisie in the first place. But it's never your fault, is it?"

"I didn't have the baby. Your thick as shit sister had the baby because she's a fucking nutcase."

Ricky flexed his hand before returning his finger to the trigger. “We’ve had our conversation. You can leave now.”

Tinsley didn’t move. He spoke quietly. “I decide when this is over.”

“Yeah? I have the gun.”

Tinsley readjusted his seat, like a mountain lion shifting its paws before pouncing. “You kill me, you go to jail. And who’ll look after the girl then? Your sister? My wife? No. She’ll be out on the streets. So get that thing out of my fucking face before I lose my patience.”

“I’ve had enough of you putting your hands on me. I’ll kill you right now. I don’t care what happens after.”

Tinsley continued watching him, gauging the truth behind the words. He eventually decided it wasn’t worth the risk. “Don’t talk to Beverly again. Don’t even look at her. Because if you do, I’ll be back out here, and I won’t be caught off-guard like this again, I’ll tell you that much.”

Ricky moved so that he was standing in the kitchen doorway, from where he would be able to direct Tinsley at a safe distance, out of the living room, out the front door. “Leave.”

Tinsley stood up, straightening to his full height. “May I get my jacket, please, sir.”

Ricky nodded. The rifle was growing heavier by the second, his finger stiff beside the trigger. He was beginning to feel terribly exhausted, and terribly sorry for himself; no matter where the trouble started, the punishment always seemed to come right back around to him.