RE: Trailer Trash 50 pt H (Patreon)

When the door opened and Mr. Moore stepped out to join them on the porch, Tabitha couldn’t help but stiffen in her mother’s arms. His presence felt like an invasion of the rare special moment they were having here, and as he closed the door behind him and stepped right over into Mrs. Moore’s glare, Tabitha struggled not to resent him for everything. Everything. To blame him not just for his bullheadedness over the Lisa issue, but for everything. For not being more proactive about his wife’s social anxiety. For not interfering when Tabitha revealed she was being bullied. For their life at the bottom, where she had grown up in poverty and thought herself inferior to everyone else throughout her formative years.

She knew that wasn’t fair. Or at least—not entirely fair. Tabitha simply wasn’t feeling fair; she was upset, and she wanted to take it all out on her father right now. Every time she tried to be mature and reasonable it seemed to only make her more and more unhappy. Tabitha felt like being childish, and for a difficult instant it was as if a tantrum was just going to explode out of her. Gritting her teeth and holding it all in made her want to cry again.

“S’cold out here,” Mr. Moore observed.

“Alan—” Mrs. Moore warned, stepping between them as if to shield her daughter from his nonsense.

“Hey, she wanted to talk!” He held up his hands. “She wanted to talk to me privately ‘bout all this, so—well, here I am. I’m here to listen’ to what all she’s got to say. If she—”

“I think that ship has sailed,” Mrs. Moore cut him off with a scowl. “Why don’t you—”

“No,” Tabitha spoke up. “We do need to talk.”

Both of her parents paused and turned to regard her, and for a long moment nobody spoke. It was a cold and quiet Christmas morning, so there were no cars passing by, no children running amuck across the neighborhood here for once. Just overcast skies, wet lawns, and a silently feuding family standing on an apartment porch.

“Mom—can you give us a few minutes?” Tabitha asked. “To talk.”

Shannon Moore’s face scrunched up, telling them both just what she thought of that idea, but after looking back and forth between them and letting out a displeased huff, the woman relented. She gave Tabitha’s shoulders another squeeze, and then slowly shuffled past Mr. Moore, glaring daggers at him as she opened the door and went back inside. The silence continued on in her absence for almost a full minute, with Mr. Moore waiting for Tabitha to say what she needed to say.

“Dad—” Tabitha blew out a sigh, wondering if she should even bother. “How much do you know about Lisa’s criminal record?”

“Honey… your aunt Lisa hasn’t had her court date yet,” Mr. Moore explained in a patient voice. “She’s not a ‘criminal,’ or anything like that, definitely not ‘til she’s been tried by a jury of her peers in a court of law.”

“Okay?” Tabitha let out a small laugh of mirth. “That’s not what I asked, though, is it?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re saying—” Tabitha hugged her arms tightly against herself and stared across the porch at her father. “What you’re saying is, she hasn’t been convicted of any of the crimes she was arrested for in the early hours of November twenty-sixth of this year. Is that right?”

“That’s right, hon,” Mr. Moore appeared somewhat relieved. “Now you’re gettin’ it.”

“So—my question remains,” Tabitha continued to stare. “Are you aware of aunt Lisa’s criminal record?”

“I don’t get what you mean,” Mr. Moore shrugged. “If you’re talkin’ ‘bout the arrest, it’s gonna—”

“No. Not just arrests,” Tabitha shook her head but didn’t break eye contact. “Convictions. Are you aware of aunt Lisa’s prior drug convictions?”

“What are you talking about?” Mr. Moore asked.

“Her history of drug abuse, arrests, and convictions prior to meeting us on Thanksgiving?” Tabitha prompted. “Possession as well as misdemeanor theft, I think it was. I mean, hah—dad. Even if she were to miraculously wiggle out of the charges for this time... she’s for sure not keeping custody of the kids. That’s just not happening. Period.”

“Tabitha—who’s telling you all this?” Mr. Moore’s frown deepened. “If for one second you believe—”

“Stop—just, stop,” Tabitha smacked her good hand against the porch railing. “I’m not being misled or brainwashed or persuaded by these other families. I—dad, I seriously need you to wake up. To wake the fuck up. Aunt Lisa isn’t this harmless, well-meaning, country gal. She’s a drug addict, a threat to her family, and the only way we can help her right now is to have her face the legal consequences of everything she’s done.”

“If you’re talkin’ ‘bout—” Mr. Moore paused. “If you’re talkin’ ‘bout back when her and your uncle were gettin’ into pot, then—”

“No, I’m not talking about marijuana, dad,” an edge of frustration appeared in Tabitha’s voice. “I’m talking about heroin, I’m talking about serious fucking opiate addiction. Hard drugs, heroin, drugs, the kind that freely rewire Lisa’s brain to prioritize getting her next fix over the other things that should have mattered in her life. Like, ‘Family.’ Like, her kids. Her fucking future. Dad, just… please.

“Wake up. Because—because, I can’t do this with you anymore,” Tabitha blew out a long breath that turned to vapor in the air. “Ask Springton P.D. about her criminal record. I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Williams will talk with you about it, if you want. If you don’t or won’t believe them—Lisa’s information is public record, you can contact the Kentucky Administrative Office of the Courts, in Frankfort. By mail or in person.

“I’m sure it was really—I’m sure it was something, that you just, that you just believed in her, no matter what,” Tabitha shook her head in dismay. “That you saw, uh I guess, that the whole world was just ganging up on poor Lisa and kicking her while she was down, that she needed someone willing to stand up for her, needed someone in her corner. I recognize that this is bigger than just a Lisa issue with you, that you’re seeing this as some larger us versus them thing, where I guess it’s all those people that are just, just looking down on Lisa, judging her strictly because of her apparent social class.

“They must not even know what they’re fucking talking about, right?” Tabitha let out a bitter laugh. “Nevermind that this is a poor semi-rural Kentucky town in the middle of nowhere, and you’d need to take out a ruler and squint real hard to find the distance in social class between ‘us and them.’ The Williams family are barely upper middle class at best, the Macintires, the Brooks, the Seelbaughs—firmly middle class. Grandma Laurie—as far as I know, her and grandpa were right there in middle class when it came to income. You have a solid blue collar job, and if mom worked, if we were a dual income household, we Moores, this immediate family, would not be in poverty. At all.”

“Tabby honey—” Mr. Moore tried to squeeze a word in.

“—and, as for them not understanding?!” Tabitha continued her tirade, speaking over him. “These other families just not understanding? Dad, Mrs. Macintire lost her brother to substance abuse. These are cop families, they have an intimate understanding of people like Lisa that you, honestly, lack. Can we just—can we just not have this conversation, not until you’ve at least looked into things? Looked at her criminal record?

“Whatever bullshit sob-stories Lisa was feeding you, whatever stubborn beliefs or prayers or whatever it is that’s been making you act this way—just. Dad, please. Wake up. Wake up, because we’re in serious fucking trouble. We’ve got four boys here that don’t have a mother or father raising them—and no, it’s not something you can just leave for grandma Laurie to deal with indefinitely, she’s supposed to be enjoying her retirement, she’s struggling to manage them as it is! I’m going to do what I can for them, but oh wow, I’m still just fourteen years old. Apparently. Let alone the fact that we apparently have ANOTHER child on the way, and, oh yeah—mom’s doing better but she still needs actual help, actual legitimate therapy that’s way beyond my ability to provide to her.

“So—so, you need to please just get your fucking act together and stop fighting me on the stupid Lisa bullshit. Please? It’s insane. I can’t—I can’t do this. I can’t carry this family, we’re not going to make it on just your income and grandma Laurie’s pension, I have, I have medical bills still from all this other stupid bullshit already, it’s going to eat into the settlement money, and just trying to pull us up out of this deep hole we’re in is going to wipe out the rest in no time flat. Joshua, Aiden, Nicholas, Samuel—they all need to see a dentist soon, and if any of them need braces—I don’t even want to think about what it all might cost! You need to get your head checked for brain tumors, mom was skirting dangerously close to diabetes for years and years, I’m, I’m going back to school after winter break and I, and I—I have no idea what kind of mess that’s even going to be. I just—I can’t even imagine.”

“Honey, hon hon hon—it’s gonna be okay,” Mr. Moore crossed the distance between them and pulled her up into a hug. “S’all gonna be okay, you hear me? I never even thought—well, Tabby, none of this stuff is anything you should ever be worrying about. Okay?”

“If I don’t—then, who will?” Tabitha asked. “No, seriously. I’m seriously asking that. If I don’t figure all of this out, who is going to? You?”

“Everything’s gonna work out,” Mr. Moore promised. “None of that all’s even anythin’ a girl your age should be stressin’ her head over, alright?”

“Then—then, give me something to work with,” Tabitha cried. “Dad. Something, anything. Something actionable. Not just praying and hoping for the best—all of this isn’t something we’re gonna just leave for Jesus to take the wheel, okay? Tell me you have a plan for the boys. Show me you’re getting mom physiatric help for her anxiety. Prove to me, that, that you’re done defending aunt Lisa from the consequences of her own fucking actions.”

“You’re swearin’ an awful lot nowadays,” Mr. Moore remarked with a sigh. “You realize.”

“Uh, yeah, I—” Tabitha sniffled from within his arms. “Gee, I wonder why? Maybe I feel the right expletives help convey the gravity of what I’m trying to say, here? Maybe they help indicate how fucking done with all of this I am? How the weight of all of this bullshit has me constantly on the edge of some kind of nervous breakdown day after day after day. I just want—I just wanted to grow up. Just wanted a normal fucking childhood, to go through and have my teenage years.”

“I just—Tabitha hon, I didn’t want you tryin’ to grow up this fast,” Mr. Moore admitted.

“Then—please, then do something,” Tabitha pleaded, fighting her way free of his embrace as tears began to overwhelm her all over again. “Then, start fucking helping me! I need, no, we need you to proactively work towards making each of these situations better. Not shrug and hope for the best. Not wait and see. Not tell me that everything’s gonna work out or be fine. Certainly not pointlessly fight me on the Lisa bullshit. This is it, dad. This is your wake up call—please, fucking wake up. This is the call to action, this is the hero’s call to action that you can not refuse to keep hearing.

“All of those years ago, my mother—Shannon Delain—called upon you to rescue her, and you did. Sort of. You could have done a better job, and yes, I AM the one that’s in a position to criticize. Listen to me, please. Wake up and do something, or you will lose this fucking family. We’re in serious trouble unless you can do something about it. I’m doing what I can, yeah, but every bit of your slack that I pick up will make me despise you, because every bit of that is a bit of trust that’s broken that can never be repaired—every bit of that erodes my perspective that um, my belief that you are the parent, that you can take care of things and handle this, that this all, that this—this—”