Peanut Butter and Toast

“Because Caesar loved me, I weep for him, and there are tears for his love.

“Because Caesar was fortunate, I rejoice for him, and there is joy for his fortune.

“Because Caesar was valiant, I honour him, and there is honour for his valour.

“Because Caesar was ambitious, I slew him, and there is death for his ambition…”

“So, what you meant to say is, when Samuel offended you toward the topic of your mother, deceased, you slew him?!”

Sam’s father stood before me, perched angrily in the doorway of my room; his arm rested somewhat causally against the doorjamb. He wasn’t here to be casual, though.

My eyes were wide and innocent at his words, but he paid no heed to this. He saw it as merely another façade, one more blank expression to add to his ever growing collection. He hardly ever got anything out of me, when digging for confessions; just diverting responses that gave him nothing.

“Private property.”

“You can hardly call it ‘private’ when you’re holed up in this fa—”

A PI appeared in the doorway, hand on Agent Caldwell’s shoulder, sympathy written across his face and, no doubt, in his eyes, as he presented Samuel’s father with a piece of paper.

Knowing what the slip read, my eyes shifted downward in both shame and dismissal of the scene playing out before me. Their silhouettes filled the doorway, casting shadows across my room. This angered my hyperactive brain, to be quite honest. Their hushed, husky voices did little to make the situation any better.

“His father has filed nine complaints, and is ready to call you to court. You don’t want to fight this man; they both have very clean records and hounding them further will only get the Yard and you into trouble. I’m sorry about your son, Adam, but you’ve got to stop hounding the boy.”

“Well you try losing your son to his best friend, Daniels!”

“You don’t know that! You don’t even have evidence, other than the hunch of them having been together earlier that days. It’s been two years. Give it a rest, Caldwell. Your family needs you at home; not out, putting yourself and others in harm’s way because you can’t let go the chance that it could be your son’s friend who did it.”

“Most offenses are inflicted by those you know.”

From where I sat, I could hear Sam’s father slam his fist into the wall beside my door, a mixed cry of both frustration and pain emitting his lips quickly thereafter, followed by a string of words I dared not ever believe to hear him say. Surely, it was more than enough. As they bickered on, I picked up my things, making my way across the linoleum floor, unnoticed.

Sanding before the duo as they faced each other with heated expressions, I listened with little interest, looking down somewhat at Caldwell whilst I stood near eye-level with Private Investigator Kevin Daniels.

“The kid is going through all sorts of psychoanalysis, Caldwell. We’ll find out what happened to your boy.”

“But we already know. He was murdered, Daniels!”

“I know. The Yard knows.”

“Everything we need is right in front of us,” Adam countered, gesturing in the direction f my bed, clearly oblivious to the fact standing before him as I began to brush past the both of them, dismissing their words as I made my way down the hallway, stopping after some while to listen to the PI’s response.

I had to admit, I was at least curious about what was going on between the two, other than the slip of paper symbolizing the restraining order my father had imposed upon my former best friend’s father. There was, obviously, something more going on here than meets the eye.

“’We?’ There is no ‘we,’ in this, Caldwell, which directly concerns you and the case. ‘We’ will be the Scotland Yard and other forces of executive branch. You, being too close to the case, are on leave for another month. Carter told me to let you know; seven complaints in one week is far too much, mate.”

“Why? So I’d get out of your way? Because I’m getting so many reports? Because I’m trying to arrest the kid who killed my son? Because I love my son?! Because I care about what happened to my son?!”

“Your son isn’t all you have!”

Wherever had that come from? Oh…right. Me. Again.

“You have a wife, Caldwell! A family to care for! A woman at home, waiting for you to return to your senses so that she can love you and nurture you back to being yourself. The ‘you’ Sam and I never knew. You have two daughters and a son! You hardly ever even expressed any emotion, whatsoever, toward Sam! Do you even know how old he was? Did you even know where he was before my house? Before he died? Outside of your bedroom door, listening to you and your wife scream, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth!

“Before I allegedly killed him? We were talking about my mom. He’d said he was leaving to just…walk things off; to think. Maybe catch a showing or two, before he went home. Do you know how often my dad took him out for dinners and the theatre, celebration or not, because you were always too busy to pay him any attention? Do you know he was pushed about all throughout fourth and fifth years, on to secondary, because he didn’t have a real dad, just a father? Because he was so bloody poor, never having enough money for nice enough clothing that would fit him when he needed it; you took up all those funds for other things, not your children.

“Do you know he had his first kiss with his girlfriend under the eaves of my porch, on a double with Katie and I? What’s his nickname? Who am I?”

“You’re the son of a—” somewhere, a crash was heard, former to the startled yelp of…someone, “who killed my son.”