For them. For you. For me.
This is Cindy.
Make sure you’ve read “For them. For you. For me. - This is Randy” Click Here
and “For them. For you. For me. - This is Sadie” Click Here
The song bounced against the walls of a gray four-door car, its guitar-driven melody aggressive and physical. The driver, from what Paul could see, sat perfectly still. Paul couldn’t quite make out the song, which was muffled within the confines of the vehicle. From what he could hear, it was catchy.
As the song’s vocalist stepped in, the driver opened the door. Music roared loudly for the entire neighborhood to hear. It was like a dozen clowns spilling out of a Volkswagen Beetle.
Woah, Black Betty, bam-ba-lam
Woah, Black Betty, bam-ba-lam
The driver stepped out, stood behind the open car door, and stared at the red brick house. The music continued to play. Loudly. Defiantly.
Black Betty had a child, bam-ba-lam
The damn thing gone wild, bam-ba-lam
The door to the house opened and a little boy rushed out and ran to the driver of the car. At about this time the driver shut off the car and, with it, the song. The little boy, blonde and probably around four, made his way around the car door and leapt into the driver’s arms.
The woman spun them around several times before playfully collapsing onto the lawn. They laughed.
An old woman from inside the red brick house emerged and stood on the porch, her arms crossed and a disapproving expression on her face. She watched, face cringing, as mother and son rolled on the ground.
“I just gave him a bath!” the old woman said in a scolding monotone.
The woman smiled at the little boy and slowly got off the ground. To the little boy she mockingly shook her hands as if to say, “we’re in trouble now!” The woman opened the back door to her car and waved the boy inside. Without hesitation, he obediently climbed in and strapped himself into the car seat. The woman looked back at the old woman with a blank expression that quickly shifted to a sly grin as the old woman remained emotionally empty.
“Thanks Lucy!” the woman yelled back, over enthusiastically and sarcastically, waving to the old woman before hopping into the gray car. The old woman slowly shook her head in disgust and disappointment.
When the woman started the car, the song made a roaring reappearance.
She said I’m worrying outta mind, bam-ba-lam
The damn thing gone blind, bam-ba-lam
The car squealed out of the driveway and sped off, taking the song with it. By this time the old woman had gone back into the house. Paul, sitting in his rental car in the driveway of an empty house across the street, got out and made his way over. He looked around at the quiet, tree-lined neighborhood. Homes were well kept and not overly showy. Yards were well tended to and flowers of all colors seemed to occupy every front yard.
Before Paul could reach the front porch, the door to the red brick house slowly opened and the woman named Lucy stepped out. He looked upon her wrinkled, disapproving face. The hair was gray, the skin more wrinkled, and her posture a bit more hunched. Despite the many years, it was the face he remembered.
“Mrs. Winston—” Paul began before the woman known as Mrs. Winston cut him off.
“What brings you to Cleveland, Paul?” she asked sternly.
It had been at least 15 years, but the woman known as Lucy Winston hadn’t lost any of her iron fisted authoritative touch. She intimidated him now just like she intimidated him then. John’s stepmother, who was primarily responsible for keeping him focused and on a clean path, was someone who nobody wanted to mess with. She yelled at children if they were too loud or ran the sprinklers in her front lawn if they got anywhere near her property. She once chased Paul and John around the house with a bat when she found out they cut class. Either she never had any intention of striking them and did it for show or she had every intention of striking them but didn’t have the stamina or speed to chase boys decades younger than her.
“I’m here to see Cindy,” Paul replied. Here was a man in his forties who still felt compelled to make his voice deeper and more mature. It was embarrassing.
“You just missed her,” she shot back. Her eyes narrowed in on Paul and scrutinized him from head to toe. “Whatever you’re looking to do, Paul, it’s not gonna work.”
Mrs. Winston was direct and astute. She didn’t know of Paul’s true intentions but she had a really good idea of what they were.
“You probably know,” Paul mumbled loud enough for the old woman.
“I know he’s gone. I’m sad. But the good Lord knew that this was gonna happen,” the woman continued, shifting her weight from one leg to the other and now conveying the stance of impatience.
“You’re…sad?” Paul came back, slightly incredulous.
“The Lord knows I am.”
Paul hated going to John’s house. It wasn’t just that Mrs. Winston frightened the hell out of him. It was primarily the many religious articles that adorned her home. He didn’t grow up religious so the blankets with Bible verses, the nook dedicated to prayer, and the crosses that hung on the walls, stood on the bookshelves, and laid on the side tables, unnerved him. But now, looking back at that time, it didn’t bother him as much as it irritated him.
“Then you know he killed himself,” Paul returned with a touch of force in his voice. The woman didn’t flinch. Either she knew or hid her emotions well or simply didn't care. “Gun in the mouth and his brains splattered against a wall he had just finished painting in a house he just bought.”
If Paul was hoping for a note of remorse or a display of weakness, no matter how tiny, slight, or brief, Mrs. Winston didn’t give one. The woman remained hardened.
“Neighbors heard a loud bang” Paul continued, trying to detail the death of his friend with as casual a tone as he could muster. “because, you know, it only takes one—”
“So I hear,” Mrs. Winston interrupted.
“—but they didn’t think much of it until they hadn’t seen him for three or four days. His garbage can was still on the curb and his mailbox was so full the mailman had to bundle his mail and leave it on his doorstep.”
As graphic as Paul got—and he simply recounted what he had read in the police reports and had been told by John’s concerned neighbors—Mrs. Winston didn’t flinch. Her face looked as if Paul had just read from a restaurant menu.
“I can’t comprehend what a body after three to four days would look like let alone smell like. I couldn’t read that part of the police report because I couldn’t imagine what my best friend since elementary school might have been thinking or feeling that he was compelled to put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger.”
“Guilt,” Mrs. Winston offered feebly.
Mrs. Winston continued to be still as a rock and hard as one too. John wasn’t her blood but she was duty-bound to raise him and in the way she felt he shone be. That was a source of their conflict. But upon Paul telling her that her stepson was dead, there was nothing from her. There was enough time and enough memories for her to feel something. And yet she didn’t give a single hint of pain or sadness.
“Paul, there are many sins. Some greater than others,” the old woman continued, leaning against the door frame with a slight smile. “The gun didn’t kill him. His sin did.”
Paul wanted to rush the porch and punch the woman in the face. But he surprisingly kept his cool. Instead, he looked upon her and smiled to himself.
“And we’re all sinners,” Paul replied. “Even me and you.”
“All of us,” she shot back.
“You certainly are,” Paul said slowly.
Mrs. Winston didn’t blink. A very small but visible smile spread across her face as she shot Paul a scrutinizing gaze. The boy she had known for much of her life and was best friends with her stepson, was no longer the shy, easily intimidated boy who now stood in her driveway. For the first time, Mrs. Winston saw Paul as a man, perhaps even an equal, simply by matching if not exceeding her own cruelty.
“Which of your sins is going to kill you?” Paul asked in a heavier, more serious tone.
“The sin that would’ve killed me just killed himself,” she stated matter-of-factly.
Paul tried to hide his emotion. But it was difficult.
“You see, Paul, my sin was my failure to bring him into the light of God. It didn’t matter whether or not he believed. It was my duty to shepherd him to the Lord and away from his wickedness. I tried and failed because he chose wickedness.”
“And look where it got you,” Paul responded, pointing to the world around him. “In your own hell. One step from being completely alone.”
Paul began to walk away and gave the home a closer scrutiny. The red brick house looked more and more desolate and sickly than when he first arrived. There were no bright flowers, whimsical decorations, or any splashes of color unlike the other homes in the neighborhood
“But I’m not alone, Paul!” she wickedly laughed, pointing to the sky signaling that she had God to keep her company.
Without even turning back to look for her expression, Paul replied in the same flat, emotionless tone as Mrs. Winston, “You are alone. And you know it.”
The joy from her wicked laugh slowly dissipated. Paul’s words sting. He hopped into the rental and watched Mrs. Winston slowly disappear into the house. He gripped the steering wheel tightly. As much as he wanted to walk back to the house and drag the old woman onto the lawn and punish her for what she said about John, he re-focused. He was here for Cindy. And with that, he started the car and drove off.
Cindy—whose name was really Cynthia—was John’s half sister. When John’s dad remarried it was to Lucy Stepehenson (who became Winston). They immediately had a little girl. He was already thirteen when Cindy was born. Despite the age difference the two got along really well. John was extremely involved in her life—feeding her, changing her, playing with her, reading to her. He wanted to be every bit the big brother.
Paul remembered going over to their house and having to walk very quietly on the soft rug. He already walked on eggshells around Mrs. Winston but even more so if he were to make a tiny sound that would awaken Cindy. One time he stepped on one of her toys, which immediately played a whimsical, carnival-like version of Pop Goes The Weasel. Cindy screamed. Mrs. Winston yelled at Paul and cursed him. Not at all very Christian. From that point forward, if John asked Paul to wait outside, it meant that Cindy was asleep.
When John graduated from high school he spent several months doting on Cindy as much as Mrs. Winston would allow. His little sister had grown very close to him, something Mrs. Winston was not at all happy with. It was during this period where the two were constantly at war. She nitpicked at everything he did. He would call her any number of names and make witch-related jokes. It got to a point where they couldn’t be in the same room. John’s dad was caught in the middle and had to side with his wife. To get away and “clear his mind and soul” (which he told Paul), John decided it was time to postpone college and see the world. The difficult part was leaving Cindy. He’d return between his trips and stay for a month or so. They would reconnect as if they had never been apart and would spend as much time together as Mrs. Winston would allow. She surprisingly even allowed Cindy to sleep over John’s apartment.
Ironically, Cindy had a very similar relationship with her mother. At the age of thirteen she began to rebel. The wedge between them widened when she would run away to escape the old woman’s rule. It wasn’t just that she would run away. She’d run to stay with John. And he never hesitated to take her in. He loved it because they’d have a phenomenal time. He would make her dinner or take her out to a restaurant. John introduced her to sushi and Indian food. They would play board games. Sometimes they’d simply watch tv from sundown to sunrise. The next morning John would take her home. The first few times Cindy ran to him the police were involved. The next couple times his dad was involved. The next few times after that Mrs. Winston would come to his apartment and reclaim her. The last few times, John would text his dad and promise to take her home. And he did, but not until the following day. They would have their time together first. Mrs. Winston, at this point, chose not to fight.
It wasn’t until Cindy was seventeen when Mrs. Winston would become physical. It started with a push. Then a slap. Then a punch. Lastly, a piece of furniture that she’d be able to lift and hurl with a force driven by hatred. John’s dad was helpless and useless. Cindy would go to John who would call the police. Shockingly John found them to be as useless as his father.
On her 19th birthday, John’s dad died. They found him behind a convenience store where he was robbed and shot multiple times. The thieves took his wallet and watch but decided to leave a jewelry box that contained a pair of amethyst earrings that he had just bought for Cindy’s birthday. Amethyst was her birthstone.
Cindy was devastated. Mrs Winston not much so. The old woman took the opportunity to move to Cleveland despite not having any family or any ties to the city. It was a plan that John later found to be something the old woman had schemed for quite some time. His father’s—her husband’s—death was what she needed. John wasn’t a strong enough anchor to keep them in South Florida so off they went. John remembered that sad day. He and Cindy hugged tightly and he whispered a promise that he would see her as often as possible. Mrs. Winston looked on, unconcerned and unaffected.
When it seemed “time”, she pulled Cindy away from John and guided her towards an awaiting car set to take them to the airport. Once Cindy got inside the car, Mrs. Winston turned to face John, someone she had raised but was not her blood.
“God help you,” she said in a monotone voice.
“You first,” John replied.
The old woman gave a low chuckle.
And with that the woman turned and got into the car. It would be another three years before John would see Cindy again. He had no idea where in Cleveland they were. The old woman made sure there was no forwarding address. She took care of all the loose ends.
Paul stood in the driveway with a grocery bag in hand. He parked behind the gray four-door car that, upon closer inspection, had seen better days. There were dents and scratches that told him they were the product of a bad driver.
The house, wedged between two two-story homes, was small compared to the others on the street. It almost felt as if it was an afterthought. Looking at the small home it would be easy to see why. It barely had a yard and felt out of place amongst the other homes.
Paul walked up to the door and rang the doorbell. He could hear a muffled voice say, “Who the hell is that?” And some shuffling feet. As the steps grew closer, Paul held the grocery bag and its contents closer.
The door opened and Cindy greeted him. Looking at her up close he could tell that she had matured physically to an adult. The last time he had seen her was when she was maybe 15. She had obviously matured. Her face was rounded and soft. Her eyes had a slight hint of green much like John’s. Her hair was still a dirty blonde and still pulled back in her favorite ponytail style.
“Cindy,” Paul said just above the volume of a whisper. She looked back at him confused. In her mind she was trying to process who this man was. He looked somewhat familiar to her and perhaps she even knew him but he swatted that away. “Paul. I’m John’s friend.”
The moment he said, “John’s friend” her face softened and a smile swept across her face. Even her eyes brightened.
“Paul! Damn, it’s been—” she searched in her head. “—fifteen years?”
Paul nodded along and laughed. He somehow felt older when she said it so innocently. Cindy practically pulled him inside the house, which didn’t at all seem as small as it did on the outside. Then again, it was sparsely decorated except for a brown couch, a dining room table, and a couple chairs. That was all Paul could see. He was certain the lone bedroom was appropriately decorated.
“What’re you doing here?” Cindy asked, plopping down on the brown couch.
Paul felt a powerful stream of emotion rushing into his body and swirling inside his head as he sat next to her on the couch. For a second he forgot that he had a grocery bag in his hands. He felt Cindy look at the bag with a heavy curiosity.
“Banana pudding,” Paul offered, handing her the bag. “Got it from the grocery store on the way here. I remember you loved it as a kid. John would make it for you and he’d put the Nilla wafers as the crust and then crumble it on top.”
Cindy pulled a container out of the bag.
“He always used the Nilla wafers. Not the off-brand shit,” Cindy laughed before turning serious. “So why are you here?”
“I’m here for John,” he started.
Cindy sensed the seriousness in his voice and she immediately became uncomfortable.
“How is he?” she asked, trembling as if she didn’t want to hear the answer that she expected to get from him because—why was John’s friend here instead of John?
Paul was struck. Cindy didn’t know. Mrs. Winston knew but apparently chose not to share it with her daughter, his stepson’s half-sister. He took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. Cindy instantly knew. Her eyes dropped to the container of banana pudding. She leaned back and let the tears flow. But she didn’t wail hysterically. At most, she wept quietly.
“H-how?” she asked timidly. Paul explained but chose to spare her of the details.
“Wow,” Cindy let drop from her mouth, her eyes still red and filled with tears. Paul sat quietly. He wanted her to speak when she felt it was time.
“So you came all the way to Cleveland to tell me my brother’s dead?” she asked, wiping her eyes with her shirt sleeves.
“I came to take you back to him,” Paul answered. Cindy leaned back in surprise.
Paul pulled out a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, which was folded neatly and looked pretty much the way it did when John had mailed it to him. The paper contained a short list that he was to follow. Paul held the piece of paper in the air to show Cindy who waved him off. She wasn’t interested in what it contained. Her brother was dead.
“So you’re going to take me back to Florida? Just like that?” she asked. Paul nodded.
Through the sadness and tears, Cindy chuckled to herself. “Lucy will lose her shit.”
Cindy, who had taken to calling her mom by her first name after the woman had taken her away from her brother, seemed to relish the fact her mother was going to be upset. Paul thought it was amusing.
“You’re grown and, frankly, who gives a shit what Lucy thinks,” Paul answered back. Cindy very much liked what he said. She smiled a mischievous smile that made Paul respond with his own mischievous smile.
At that moment, the little boy from earlier that afternoon came running into the living room and leapt onto Cindy’s lap. His dirty blonde hair was messed as if he had been asleep and suddenly was awoken by some strange voice in his house. Cindy cradled him in her arms and squeezed tightly. He hugged her just as tightly.
“My little monster!” she roared playfully. The little boy laughed. Cindy sat him between her and Paul. The little boy looked up at him suspiciously. For a tiny second Paul could see the familiar scrutinizing gaze of Lucy Winston and it made him emotionally recoil just a tiny bit.
Cindy poked the little boy in the stomach.
“Aren’t you going to introduce yourself, little monster?”
The boy remained frozen, suspicious.
“This little monster is my son,” Cindy introduced. “His name is John.”
He had no emotional or hereditary link to the little boy but Paul beamed like a proud father.
Little John looked at his mom and then to Paul. He was still suspicious. “Johnny, this is my friend Paul.”
Paul slowly extended his hand. Little John, full of confidence, accepted and shook it purposefully.
“I’m five,” Little John declared. Paul gave the child a look as if to say he was very impressed. Little John smiled back at him.
Cindy explained that Little John was the product of a relationship with a guy who had no intention of sticking around once he found out she was pregnant. He wasn’t good for her anyway, which Cindy saw as the silver lining. She decided to raise the boy herself and named him after her brother, both to honor him and to piss off her mom. When John had made a few secretive visits to see Cindy, he would spend time with Little John. They would go to the park or to the movies. John spoiled his little namesake. Though they saw each other about once a month, Little John took to his uncle. As he grew a bit older and became more aware, he saw John as a benevolent father figure.
Mrs. Winston knew John would come once or twice a month to see Cindy and her grandson. She never asked her daughter but intuition told her so. Leading up to his visit, Cindy’s schedule for the next few days was suddenly flush with chores and errands to run that would effectively make her too busy to see or even call her mother. In the days after there was a lingering brightness and happiness, which only seemed to slowly dissipate as she went further from the days when he had visited. She longed to see her brother again.
Mrs. Winston, irritated with her stepson, didn’t know how John found them. John hired a private investigator who quickly produced results after a few calls. Either the PI was very good at his job or Mrs. Winston was very bad at disappearing. Regardless, it was the best five thousand he had spent. Once he established contact with Cindy, he would make the regular secretive visits. At this period Cindy moved out on her own. The stress of living with her rigid, overbearing mother was too much. What Mrs. Winston couldn’t understand was how someone with just a high school diploma earning a restaurant server’s wages was able to afford any kind of home.
“John bought me this house,” Cindy explained. “Actually it’s owned by a company John set up and they charge me rent that’s drawn from a bank account that John created for me. We told Lucy it was some special housing program and the dumb bitch bought it.”
Actually, Mrs. Winston had her suspicions, regardless of how elaborate the tale Cindy told her.
Little John playfully slapped his mother’s arm. He knew the bad words and would never say them and so he wanted to let his mother know that she shouldn’t either.
“Sorry, little monster,” Cindy playfully apologized. Then she turned a bit serious. “Wait, somebody should be taking a nap!”
“Lucy wanted me to and I told her I didn’t want to,” he replied innocently. Oh how Paul relished that Little John didn’t call the old woman the very endearing “grandma” and instead chose to call her by her first name as if she was any other adult in his life that he came across.
“Why don’t you go back in the room and try?” Cindy pleaded. “I’m too tired to deal with a little monster.”
And with that, Little John hopped off the couch and ran back into the bedroom. They heard 35 pounds of boy plop onto the bed and bury himself under some blankets.
Cindy slowly turned to Paul.
“So we’re just gonna…go.” She wasn’t asking but declaring. Paul nodded.
“You know flying—” she began before Paul cut her off.
“I’ll get us first-class seats and before we fly we can get fat on food in the airline lounge,” Paul smiled trying to sweeten the deal.
“First class seats? You?” Cindy had a suspicious but playful look to her.
“I’ve done well,” Paul replied.
“Well enough to fly all of us first class to Florida,” Cindy countered. Paul smiled. She didn’t at all mean it as a snarky comment.
“I don’t like flying. The first and last time I flew was about fifteen years ago and it was to go back to Florida for something of my dad’s.” Her face grew sad. “We didn’t even see John.”
Cindy barely recalled but it had something to do with her father’s will and estate. They had to appear in person. Literally, they were there for almost 24 hours before flying back to Cleveland on the earliest possible flight.
“I guess we’re driving.” Paul forced a grin. The trip would take a day when figuring in stops for the restroom, food, and landmarks. He could use the 20+ hours in the car to get reacquainted with Cindy. Not that they were that close but they were close enough that she could fill in a lot of memory gaps that he had somehow forgotten. Plus, he wanted to know more about John and Mrs. Winston.
“I don’t know—” Paul began, looking around as if he was searching for an answer. “I don’t know if we’ll have enough time.”
Cindy looked at Paul and laughed sarcastically.
“Is John going anywhere?” she asked to which Paul nodded.
The sun was setting. Cindy looked out a window and saw the sky turn to a warm rusted orange.
“Let’s leave the first thing tomorrow morning!” She exclaimed excitedly.
To be continued.