ARROGANT BASTARD (2 page)

The social worker’s state-owned Suburban pulls to a gentle stop, waking me from my Codeine-induced, six-hour nap. I wipe the drool from my mouth and glance out the window. My eyes are still black and blue and they hurt when I squint, but I’ve learned over the years to ignore the pain; eventually, it goes away.

“We’re here, Jensen.” Her voice is annoyingly soft and sweet like cotton candy. Judging by all the photos on her work desk, she is one of those Mother Teresa types, only she’s married and she and her husband have adopted a whole orphanage-worth of system children. Brad and Angelina would be proud. Guess they didn’t have room for me. “Is that your mother?”

Standing on the front steps of a picturesque yellow colonial is a woman who resembles my mother. She’s wearing jeans and a blue sweater, and her hair is long and pulled back. It’s still the same shade of shit-brown I vaguely remember.

“Come on,” the social worker coaxes me with her voice, like it’s some kind of magical lullaby. It probably works on little kids, but not grown-ass eighteen-year-olds. “She’s excited to see you.”

Bull-fucking-shit.

I sit up, raking my hand through my dark hair and combing it into place. I don’t know much about my mother besides the fact that she left my father when I was seven, and she never came back for me. Dad told me all sorts of salacious stories, none of which I fully believed. None of what he said mattered, anyway. Her actions spoke for her.

The social worker—who I think is named Mercy, or some shit like that—climbs out of the Suburban and waddles to my side, pulling open the door until I melt out like liquefied boredom.

I glance up at my mom again. Her hands are clasped at her waist, and her mouth keeps dancing into a reserved smile, which fades and reappears like it’s on some kind of loop. She’s nervous. I just want to get this whole awkward reintroduction thing over with, be shown to my new room, and walk a straight line for the next few months.

Then my life can finally fucking start.

I just need to graduate from high school in a few weeks and crash here for the summer, and then there’s an apprenticeship waiting for me in Los Angeles with one of the best tattoo artists in the world. He called me himself the day he received my unsolicited drawings and told me there’s a spot for me in his shop this August.

I amble up the sidewalk, the earth a little unsteady from my Codeine-stupor, and approach my mother for the first time in eleven years.

“Hi, Kath,” Mercy says to her. They shake hands like they’re conducting a business deal and my mother gingerly approaches me. At least she’s willing to meet me in the middle, because this is awkward as hell.

“Jensen.” She stares at me like she’s looking at a goddamned ghost. Her trembling hand rises to my cheek and grazes the spot where my father’s gaudy wedding ring cut into my flesh during the last beating. Kath pulls her hand back quickly and covers her mouth. Her eyes well.

She cares.

I think.

“Oh, my goodness. That man is a
monster
.”

“Shall we head inside?” Mercy eyes the front door and Kath scans around like someone’s watching. “It’s standard procedure. I just need to ask a few questions, make sure Jensen has his own room, gets acclimated, and then we’ll sign a few things and I’ll be out of your hair for the foreseeable future.”

Kath releases a breath and nods. I’m willing to bet living with my father from age eighteen to twenty-five made her submissive and agreeable.

We head inside where two tow-headed kids are zoned out to public television cartoons. They sit cross-legged in front of a small flat screen in the living room. The walls are decorated with crocheted art knitted into sayings like “Bless This House” and “Home Sweet Home.” Not a speck of dust resides on the floors, and judging by the lack of clutter, there’s an OCD-grade cleanliness thing going on—it’s almost the exact same way Juliette kept our house in Arizona.

Must be another one of my father’s persuasions.

“Welcome to our—my—home.” Kath’s words are robotic and carefully chosen, tinted with a slight tremor.

What the fuck is she so scared of?

It’s dusk now, and the curtain-covered windows let in little light. Maybe in the shadows I remind her of my father. I can only imagine the horrible shit she had to endure. I could cut her some slack.

But then I remember she left me there to be raised by that monster and never looked back.

She saved herself from a lifetime of hell and no one else. She deserves no slack.

The three of us head toward the family room. Kath grabs a remote and turns down the volume on the cartoons. The white-haired
Children of the Corn
turn around with wide, brown eyes and slink up to the sofa next to her. Their stares freak me out. They look damn near identical, but one’s clearly a girl and the other a boy.

“Gretchen, Gideon,” Kath says, slipping her arms behind their backs, “this is your big brother, Jensen. Can you say hello to him before you go wash up for bed?”

The kids say nothing. They’re small. Maybe five or six. Kath titters, twisting the gold cross around her neck. I don’t give a fuck. They don’t have to say hi. The girl can’t stop staring at my swollen eyes. I imagine I look scary as hell.

“It’s all right.” I’d wink, but I can’t.

Mercy and Kath make some kind of small talk. I tune them out, scanning my perimeter. This is my new home. There are doilies on the backs of the armchairs and a big, oak table in the dining room. I count twelve chairs. Why the fuck would she need twelve chairs?

“Shall we go see Jensen’s room?” Mercy stands up, clutching her clipboard and clicking her pen.

“Well,” Kath says. Her gaze shifts from mine to Mercy’s and back. “This was all short notice… a-and while it’s certainly a wonderful blessing… we… I’m not quite prepared…”

Mercy nods. “Understandable. Does he have a bed? A place to sleep?”

Kath leads us down a hall and up a set of stairs to the second level. “There’s an extra bed in Gideon’s room he can use for now… until we figure things out.”

I don’t want to bunk with a six-year-old, but Mercy doesn’t pry, and it’s not like I have a choice.

I check my reflection in a nearby mirror, cringing, and grip the railing as we file upstairs. A moment later, we’re standing in the middle of a kindergartener’s room, complete with dinosaur wallpaper and glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Two twin beds rest opposite one another: one outfitted with dinosaur bedding and the other with a white comforter and a single, flat pillow. I assume that one’s for me.

“I always wanted a room like this,” I say, monotone. It’s a dig at Kath, reminding her of the childhood I never had, but I don’t think she picks up on it. She’s flighty and oblivious, like a hummingbird. I wonder if my father made her that way.

Mercy laughs. “This will do fine for now. This okay with you, Jensen?”

I offer a tightlipped nod, favoring the side of me that doesn’t currently have a row of bruised ribs.

The second we leave Dinosaurland, Kath points me toward a hall bathroom and shows me how the light switch is on the outside of the door, and then she mentions the linen closet is at the end of the hall. When we’re all downstairs again, Kath and Mercy linger at the door, talking like old friends. I’ve known Mercy a whopping twenty-four hours, but I’ve seen how she’s good with people like that. She has a way of making anyone comfortable, and I suppose that’s why she does what she does.

Mercy, with her cotton-candy voice, chubby mom hands, and warm smile, reminds me not everyone is filled with darkness.

“I better get going,” she says before sighing, as if she regrets having to leave. The smallest sliver of me doesn’t want her to go because now shit’s about to get real.

Real awkward.

“Feelings make you weak, boy
.
”
My father’s words echo in my head. He raised me on toughened quotes mixed with scripture, which he conveniently twisted and turned to suit his lectures.

Kath shows Mercy out and shuts the door. She turns and our eyes meet. The two kids have disappeared upstairs. It’s just us. No social worker. No bullshit niceties required. I expect her to let her guard down and morph into someone else entirely, but she doesn’t. She stands there, shifting from one foot to the other, her fingers intertwined like she’s knitting a goddamned sweater with her hands.

“I remind you of him, don’t I?” I place a hand on my hip and cock my head, studying a face that hardly resembles mine. Her features are soft and bland, not hard and angled like Josiah’s and mine. Josiah’s hair is as dark as his heart, and I take after him in that regard as well. We’re built of muscle and brute, though I’m bigger than him. We wear our strength like a second skin.

She brushes past me, heading toward the kitchen where she fills a teakettle with water and nestles it on the stove.

“Tea?” she asks. She must want to talk. I’m not in the mood to hear her bullshit excuses as to why she abandoned me and walked away from her own flesh and blood. I’m not interested in hearing how sorry she is.

“I’m kind of tired. Been a long day.” I point toward the stairs and paint a regretful half-smile on my lips.

“Please.” She’s not asking. Her eyes snap toward the kitchen table. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this conversation. There are things you need to know, Jensen. About the past. About the present, too.”

The tea kettle whistles. She grabs two mugs and two bags of tea and I take a seat at the table amongst one of the twelve chairs.

“I’m sure you have questions,” she says, setting a white coffee mug in front of me.

Hundreds. Thousands, maybe. None of which matter at all anymore. Maybe at eight or twelve or even fifteen, I’d have wanted a chance to ask them. I lost my ability to give two shits years ago.

“Your father,” she says, blowing on the steamy liquid in her mug, “is a very powerful man.”

You’re tellin’ me, lady.

There’s a reason he beat the living shit out of me and walked away with a slap on the wrist. He’s got the whole town of Charter Springs, Arizona wrapped around his pinky finger. He drives around in the church’s Lincoln Town Car like he owns the city, and he sort of does. The man’s never met a traffic ticket he couldn’t get out of, and he’s never met a local he couldn’t convince to come to one of his sermons. The man could sell ice to an Eskimo, just like the way he sells his version of God to a congregation of over two-thousand people. Back in Charter Springs, Josiah Mackey is a hand-picked-by-God, modern-day saint.

“I ran off with him at eighteen,” she says, averting her gaze. “We never married. You came along quickly, and then something in your father changed. He became controlling, physically abusive—manipulative. I couldn’t do anything right. I couldn’t please him.”

Her hands tremble as she wraps them around her mug. Josiah Mackey put the fear of God into his congregation each Sunday, but he put the fear of himself into his women twenty-four-seven.

“I tried to leave him several times. I took you with me each time, and each time he’d find me. And so I stopped fighting. I made him think I was happy. I had to get him off my case for a while. But right after your seventh birthday, I announced I was leaving him for good. He told me if I took you, he’d kill us both.”

“I don’t doubt that.” I stare at my tea. I haven’t touched it yet. Not much of a tea-drinker, and it stinks like mulch and barley.

Kath blinks away tears and wipes the ones that fall anyway. “I wanted to come back for you, Jensen. I did. He made it impossible.”

If she wants me to feel sorry for her, it’s almost working.

Almost
.

“I tried to go to the police in Charter Springs. No one would listen. No one believed me. And by then, he’d trashed my name all over town. Told everyone I ran off and had an affair. Said I had mental illnesses and I was a danger to you.” She sniffs and turns away. “The threats didn’t stop until he knew I was good and scared. I was afraid if I tried anything else, he’d hurt you.”

“I was a weapon,” I mused. “The only weapon he had to hurt you with.”

She wipes her nose on the side of her wrist and nods, her blue eyes softening as if we’re sharing a special moment. I’m sure it’s a special moment, in her book.